If you could see, right now,
this piece of notebook paper
upon which I write, you would know
practically the whole story.

The ink smudge bullet holes would be enough
and you, in your intelligence, wouldn’t need
the sight of my speckling jeans
to know that, now: it’s raining.

But I sit under my tree determined
to wait it out. The sky is dotty
and only one looming dark cloud
makes his special appearance.

So while I wait, this piece of paper
on which I conduct my observations
shall protect my leather notebook from getting soggy.
Sacrificial love, that of child for parent. (Poetic.)

My leather notebook, protected by paper,
in turn is protecting a book of Rilke’s best;
which in turn, shields Collins’ latest.
(Cross-cultural collaboration at it’s finest.)

An avocado sandwich rests safe in a blue quilted lunch bag,
which in turn rests safe
underneath the waterproof bag
which houses my rain-safe laptop.

A few more books, some extra paper, a pen or two
all these secure in my pink backpack
which is, in turn, protected by the raincoat
that I’ve unzipped and draped on top.

My bike is fine–master of weather–
and my saddlebag is itself waterproof.
My helmet will gather rain
but I shall ride fast when it’s all said and done.

My constant companion, my tie-dye blanket
is spread on the grassy floor,
not needed to do so, but gracious in doing,
to protect the grass below us.

I, for my small part to play,
I, protected by waterproof skin,
am shielding part of the blanket
from the steadily increasing drops.

So. Tis this paper
with it’s hastily scribbled verse
and inky bullet holes
that suffers the worst.


The reader brings his or her own perspective to the poem. Here is mine:

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