Behind the entry bench, the van gogh
blue umbrella wedged at a 35 degree angle
hadn’t been wrap-snapped first.
This would bother me, were it not wet
and needing to freely drip on the hardwood
floor by the baseboards.
This would bother me, but for the carelessly lain
pink scarf inadvertantly pooling,
sopping beyond its mohair fringe.
This would bother me, but I remember the lady who
walked in wearing it, who pretended not to see me.