Cover Story
My umbrella was wet,
So they gave me a bag.
A wet floor at the gym
Would be kind of a drag.
It was still coming down
When I left, so I tugged
My umbrella from where
In my bag it was snugged.
Once at home, it dried out,
But the cover was lost,
Leading me on a search
Of the streets I had crossed.
It was there on the walk,
Looking wet and forlorn,
But it didn’t look dirty
Or muddy or torn.
It’s now hanging to dry,
Reunited, I’m glad,
With my favorite umbrella
That I’ve ever had.
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