Poem: Umbrellas

I.

There is a boy puttering
in the hotel corridor, leashed
by a single thread of duty--
it is wound
twice around the doorknob,
and pulls taut at his wrist.

Back through the keyhole,
his keepers are weary,
sprawled like dead
leaves on bedspreads,
and fading
into sleep.

II.

A girl wails,
her anguished pitch escalating
by years.

In the rented night,
her last cry strangles,
undone by hands
on wrists.

III.

A forty-foot red curtain separates us
from the amphibious stage.

At the cirque du soleil
(i am squinting to see the sun),
clowns chase leaks
with patchy umbrellas.

i do not know my father's age--
in rows of rivets, well-dressed,
we leak simultaneously.
Chuckling at clowns,
we caulk.

They all wear flower-
scented perfume.

i am nothing
like flowers:

i will invest
in an umbrella
to grow up.