Umbrella Girl

 
No amount of exercise,
concoction of drink and drugs
can cure this
torpid sterility.
Too lonely to love anything
but myself.
As I stand in the wet air,
(head down, collar up, eyes knotted)
there's an umbrella girl at the bus stop
across the road
dressed for sun standing
in the rain
full of vigour and zest.

As she picks up some unimportant papers
that she dropped on the wet ground
a drop darts onto her neck
and runs down
to the hidden flesh
under the never-mind fabrics
keeping her out of a police car.

She screeches at the wet shot
then erects herself quickly
forgetting to bounce the rain off
and stands laughing,
electricity in her smile
as she invites the sky
to lick life and mysteries.

I wish now, more than ever
that I was that murmur
releasing secrets on bumped skin
as I pull my collar tighter,
watching my boots take me anywhere I want
but home.