Our Complicated Public Union

Walk beneath my canopy,
aerial assaults pinging as you find a pace.
In April’s warm mist your cheeks I keep dry.
Hold me and I hold you,
the infant wrapped in the folds of her mother’s arms.

On clear days you hide me
and I take comfort in the act.
Hidden on the floor of your car,
inverted in a corner beside the door,
open in the mudroom, dry now for days.

You dare not reveal me with ceiling overhead,
an oral myth to which you comply.
How perverse—holding me open in your living room!
No, our is a complicated public union,
I am flaunted then coldly put away.

When skies darken,
you curse if I am not in reach,
delight in having me near,
for I will be a guardian its wrath.
Stand beneath and grip softly the me made for your hand.

I can sense the smile in your steps
and if in your frolic you dip me upside down,
I will rejoice as I drink splashes on my underbelly
while you stand with arms spread,
tilting your face to the leaking heavens.

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