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.