Two Umbrellas Poem by Joan Xie

Four o'clock in the morning,
Eyes in the dream,
Ears are wandering about subway maze.

A used umbrella is lying on an orange chair,
silver buttons unbuttoned, inner storm exposed.
Dry already (maybe not inside)
But no one cares, nor near one goes.
Maybe it would suddenly stand up, open,
And leak whatever it collected in the downpour.

On the other end, hanging on the railing,
Another umbrella, brand new & gold,
Exquisite & arrogant, maybe never be used.
But no one dares to claim it, nor near one goes.
How could a luxury umbrella be left in such commonplace?
(must be unreal, I mean, no use in the rain.
who were apart from a useful umbrella?)

They are strangely left alone, avoided by the same human suspicion.
Two umbrellas, one new one old,
Half past four in the morning, shared the same path.