my umbrella

The last time I saw my umbrella

it was in a trash can in Paris.

A burst of wind came up the Seine,

perhaps blown all the way from London

bringing traces of tea, curry, digestive biscuits, and Mary Poppins

over

the English Channel, 
the Normandy cows, 
the Impressionists' fields.

My green umbrella turned inside out.
I was no Mary Poppins
and my umbrella was no longer good for anything
but the trash can.

I think of
that trash can along the Seine
every time it rains.

I haven't bought a new umbrella:
the idea never occurs until it's raining
and I'm pressed against a building, relying
on the slight overhang of the roof to
keep me dry.

And then,
instead of thinking about 
Illinois,
where I am,
I get to think about
Paris,
where I am not,
and how there,
rain,
like everything else in French,
is more romantic.