Umbrella for Two

In Oregon we had no use
for umbrellas. It rained every day,
drizzle that curled
our hair and made us smile.
Umbrellas utilize one hand,
leaving only one for schoolbooks,
bags, a hand to hold
a chocolate bar while scarfing,
to reach for a hanky when the cold
made the nose run “so fast
I can’t keep up with it,” said Leola
as she trudged toward school through the mud.

And the thing about umbrellas is:
impossible to share. Try it. Neither
of you is covered. Each girl’s
curls turn curlier, drops
seeping down her neck and under
the white Peter Pan collar.
One spot, and only one, stays dry. 
The space between. 

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