Saving My Umbrella

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My umbrella is blue and white,

with spots of rust where the bones

and joints of this ancient pterodactyl

have bled into its skin.

More than once I have gone back

to some coffee shop or restaurant

to rescue my umbrella from under chairs

or from the Lost and Found,

which umbrellas call The Orphanage,

and where on moonlit nights they gather,

whispering of how their People

will return at last to claim them.

They do not talk about the ones

flung off in wrath,

their limbs awry and twisted,

their People stomping them in fury.

On sidewalks and in vestibules or getting into cars,

they are pounded, torn and kicked, jammed

headfirst into trash bins, abandoned in

the gutter — ancient birds brought down at last.

My umbrella rolls around the floor

of the back seat in my old car,

to live its days in comfort there,

stained, arthritic, loved with care.

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Barry Casey has published in Spectrum Magazine, Brevity, Mountain Views, Patheos, Faculty Focus, Adventist Society for the Arts, and The Dewdrop. His collection of essays, Wandering, Not Lost: Essays on Faith, Doubt, and Mystery, was published by Wipf and Stock in November 2019. More of his writing can be found at Danteswoods.com. He writes from Burtonsville, Maryland.