Singing in the Rain (Poem)

Singing in the Rain

Madame's old umbrella
has run its reign, turned
inside out in the mistral.

She takes it — ribs splayed,
catch springs loosed,
the uncomfortable handle

inconveniently gone missing
— to the last repairman
in Paris. He welcomes all

the brokenness in a corner
of his crowded Pep's Maison,
raises not even a black brow

as Madame mouths Merde!
The snapped ribs, short tusks
that poke and jab, are one

thing, torn canopy another,
and price the only negotiable
she'll weather in good time.

The repairman takes his
expert measures in silence,
offers Madame the choicest

of carved wood shafts, new
scotch-guarded shield, extra
runners for along the top.

Madame nods her oui, watches
the quick job done. She smiles
to think of singing in the rain.

© 2014 Maureen E. Doallas
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This poem was inspired by the NPR story about "No Rain on His Parade: Parisian Preserves Art of Umbrella Repair".