The Umbrella Salesman

He appears from the oil refinery,
pipes twisted, smoldering outside town.
On main street, he removes his hardhat
and rattles his wares,
luring us from the ruined church.

"These are special umbrellas," he says.
"Whoever hides beneath one is safe
from the night's rain of death."
We crowd 'round a wagon filled
with rainbow colors.

"For a child," he says,
smoothing pink nylon, stretched across
a frame with two broken ribs.
"This saw a lad safe to the refugee camps."

"Built for two," he says,
unfurling bright blue and white stripes,
"for lovebirds seeking haven."

A gust of wind jerks him sideways,
his pale, wasted limbs fighting,
legs braced against the rising air.
The umbrella ribs fail,
the fabric springs inside out
with a resonant thmp!

A young girl reaches into his cart, 
draws out a thin paper umbrella.
She unfurls the pleats,
painted red with two gangly dragons,
tongue to tail with each other.

"They'll protect you!" he says, 
"See you to the end, those two!"
She smiles and spins the handle
across her pale shoulder,
setting off for a better life
between two army tanks punched full of holes.
"Hey, wait!" he says.

I step forward to pay in her stead --
two pockets of nuts and bolts,
handed over in tens,
my sister muttering Hail Mary's beside me,
one for each decade
I lay upon his hungry palm.

Scott Speck
05/28/99