Mr. Smith's Umbrella

Grey as day can be,
with just the right amount of white,
comes the rain
to pause the pain
and bring upon the light.

But there he sits,
all the same.
His park bench in the rain.

And here I sit,
all the same.
Beside my windowpane.

I tap the glass once,
perhaps he will look up.
But one tap will not do,
he remains a statue.

My hand knocks twice.
And his response?
Bleached, wrinkled face,
nothing to replace
the hallow of his eyes.

Three times to tremble the glass
is what it takes to see
that there is also me.

But there is no smile,
there is no wave,
no glance of his eye.
Just a shiver running through,
and what else should I do?

so i rap tap tap tap.
Four
to be sure.
And now his brittle bone
shutter like stone.

"Wake Mr. Smith!
Open your eye!
See there is life
that is still left to die."

I pound to the fifth.
But whats left of this
is a quivering man
who's left to stand
and walk away in the rain
from my windowpane.

Grey as day can be,
with just the right amount of white,
comes the man with the umbrella
who prefers blindness over sight.