Black Umbrellas


Black Umbrellas

She dressed her best

ran a comb through the nest

raincoat and knickers

hiding all those tracks

it’s time to stick a kicker

start the engine and fly away

fly away into the fog

beneath the sad black dog.

Between her toes

a dance of angry holes,

a dance of false lovers

no monsters tonight

no heartbreak hotel for her

just another swamp of sorrow

on the edge of tomorrow

dancing with her  own big black dog.

South Chicago holds no Cinderellas

no kings or beauty queens

just old ladies

with their black umbrellas

and old men

with holes in their jeans.