The Umbrella Fixer

A broken rib repair, as simple as

binding the dislocated pieces

with a length of wire, not even

the distance from your arm

to your heart

that is all it takes...

That and the eye of the man

squatting on the street corner

when the rain begins,

and you walk by,

surprised at the

impoliteness with which it began...

The umbrella fixer,

with eyes as discerning

as any eyes that pass him by,

looks for the simplest way

to help you.

You hurry by shoulder to the wind,

furiously flicking

your broken umbrella,

wanting to cavalierly throw its

carcass away

as it is of no use to you now;

but you brace against the wind that

its spindly form still shields you from.

It was of no importance,

though it protected you from

the heavenly waters

which drowned you in

a suffocating embrace

that nearly killed you.

But perhaps this winter

you did not die of an illness

from the wet cold, from being exposed

from being vulnerable to the bitter wind

that didn't care whether you were strong enough

to withstand its onslaught.

You wouldn’t have seen

the umbrella fixer,

crouching nearby;

who understands its value;

you wouldn't have noticed him

but for the rain

and your broken umbrella.

He politely smiles and offers to help.

You quickly hand him

your damaged stick, with torn fabric,

where rain pours in with the force

of God; and quickly, expertly,

with his needle and nylon

he quickly stitches,

and restores your defense against the rain.

What manner of man is this?

He goes to your very soul.

You quickly walk away

protected again, and warm

without a thought

of the man who bows, smiling

behind you, as he waits

for the next hapless soul.

The umbrella fixer is there

when the sky is falling

and the sun explodes

and when the weeping rain

floods the earth, he softly whispers:

I will help you fix this one

small thing.