Here I Am, Lord

The ribbed black of the umbrella   
is an argument for the existence of God,   

that little shelter   
we carry with us   

and may forget   
beside a chair   

in a committee meeting   
we did not especially want to attend.   

What a beautiful word, umbrella.   
A shade to be opened.   

Like a bat’s wing, scalloped.   
It shivers.   

A drum head   
beaten by the silver sticks   

of rain   
and I do not have mine   

and so the rain showers me.

More Poems by Michael Chitwood