On the phone she tells me
she looks forward to the rain.
She mentions that she forgot her umbrella
again, but she’ll be okay without it.

And would I be kind enough to bring in her book
left outside on the table. Fretting in jest
that the author may not forgive if I don’t hurry,
and refuse her the denouement she hopes for.

I wonder, once more, if it’s forgetfulness.
Does she worry I’ll think she’s foolish or laughable
because she’s neglected to bring an umbrella again?

It’s not any of that. I can hear it in her voice
as she’s walking in the downpour;
the rain chasing away the blue of her black.
Obviously, I remind myself,
it’s not about forgetfulness at all.