under the umbrella

imagine
an umbrella that you don’t touch –

it could
be hovering or suspended by a pole –

but you
stand beneath it and are kept dry.

you look
up at that umbrella thankfully,

or
maybe you think your gaze means love,

yet you
are merely dry from its protection.

you
close your eyes and thrill at the patter;

it is
rain tippity tapping its ineluctability

and
between you and it is wire and fabric.

imagine
a canvas within reaching distance –

the
wind ripples the old, water stained fabric –

but you
remain dry in your old sleeping bag.

you
watch stars through the tent topping triangle,

and
your gaze falls on an isolated star or two,

cut off
from their subjective constellation.

and you
awaken after your sore eyes droop,

the
same near narcolepsy for which you mock her,

and
thrill at the prickle of cold air in your nose.

imagine
the blanket on your winter mattress,

like a
disembodied cuddle that keeps you sane.

yet you
fight with your lover for warm territory.

you
turn over and see him in the mid-night dark,

and he
sleeps while you find yourself awake,

so you
stare, and map the whiskers on his cheek.

and,
yes, you wonder why you are there,

on that
night, in that cold, under that blanket,

as he snores a pitter
patter of pseudo-rain