Toe, heel. Toe, heel.
One foot over the other.
The width of the curb is not very forgiving,
but,
like a gymnast on a beam,
I balance precariously.
The umbrella in my hand
is only catching the wind
and tugging me to either side;
baked brown grass to my right,
and pavement on my left.
There is no rain,
but maybe when the clouds see
how I'm waiting down here,
raincoat and all,
they will take pity on me
and spare a few drops.
Look.
I even wore my plastic boots,
the gaudy yellow ones
that blister my heels
in case of puddles, naturally.
They're called galoshes,
but that word gets stuck in my throat.
It's just my luck.
There has never been
a dryer
umbrella.
