The streets are littered with the dead bird carcasses
of umbrellas discarded since the momentary rains.
The sun bakes them and their dying wishes are for nothing,
but sprinkler droplet mist on their ribs
Shiny metal.
Exposed upward to the unforgiving summer.
I gallantly try to perform my best CPR routine;
I puff up my chest
bring the winds down into my lungs
past the diaphragm into my belly.
And out
gales known only to Okie dust-bowl survivors.
Nothing.
Just the ruffling of nylon wings,
tattered holy and spent.
I whisper a small prayer into the crook of the weathered wooden handle,
where I assume, Umbrella birds keep their ears.
"Blessed are those who give their lives to keep the 'torrents' of Los Angeles' piss-sprinkle rain
Off the backs of the undeserving hoards.
And haloed is the man who wants for nothing
But to sit doused in LA mystery summer rain."
Thunderous, hoping for a rainbow,
But that rainbow is just the glassy oil filled puddle
Reflecting a phantom in it's toxic iridescence.
He hardly recognizes his own hands
Though they spend most hours smothering his face.
Who is this lone wolf?
A frightened shell of what it meant to be a man.
Mind lost in the days of wicker rocking chair pacification,
His mangled hand reaches out to me,
Shaky and palm up.
Offers me bits of butterscotch wrapped in hand-painted wax paper.
Shaped like birds or bats, and they catch breeze off trees
and plant them selves in gopher holes.
Praying for their turn to bloom.
