Joanne Monte

You stand on the porch
unaware of the woman you are,
the woman in quandary, the woman
from whom you must step away
and look for through a gray gauntlet of fog
that blinds you
to the direction and the distance,
the earth and it’s volatile mood swings.

It’s almost a certainty
that it will rain wherever you may go;
the rain you dread having to dash into,
dressed as you are in your shiny black boots
and raincoat, toting an umbrella
that you trust to spring up and protect you.

How casually you had chosen it
from among the jungle prints, the arc
of rainbow colors, the royal plaids.
Unlikely that one would better protect you
against the rain darting in at angles,
piercing your bare skin like sharp pine needles,
or the one strong wind you do not expect,
leaving you to wonder just how much exposure
you are risking beneath that fragility.