Umbrella Poem by John F. McCullagh

The sheets were still warm
from her last fleeting kiss,
Redolent of the perfume she wore.
Surely the memories of nights such as this
are what our existence is for.
They had met on the train
which was not at all strange;
they had noticed each other before.
That he shared his umbrella
and later, his bed
was a gift of the evening's hard rain.
Her skin was sun kissed
and she had bee stung lips.
Her eyes, a mischievous green.
True, she had an umbrella,
but why tell the fellow
she happened to meet on the train.
Let him think he had conquered,
It was she who had stooped.
Perhaps she would see him again.
She had left him asleep,
slipping out like a thief from
a night filled with Love and Champagne.
She did not regret
letting herself get wet.
as it led him to act as her swain.
He'd been tender and sweet
and his taste was a treat
once they'd come in from the rain.