I found a red umbrella in the backseat of this cab

One spoke broke, raindrops fresh, outfitted with a tab

That read a name and address, against the stark red sheath

But I ignored the message—and took it like a thief.

Imagined myself twirling, when clouds conspire next,

With my red umbrella, different from the rest;

Some musical endeavor in my favorite-colored cover

By a backdrop of fat raindrops, I’d embrace a wayward lover.

Why did this girl, “Stephanie”, even bother with a name?

Intending to discard this symbol, undermine its fame,

Red: The color of passion, love, and war,

Scarlet-bloody history and secret untold lore.

“Finders keepers, losers weepers,” so the old law goes,

It’s a simple red umbrella! But then, I suppose,

I should do what I’d expect of all who may discover

Any found treasures of mine they resurfaced and recovered.

Maybe Stephanie imagined red among the grayness

Of being some protagonist inside a world of sameness

So I mail her umbrella back to her provided address

“The right thing” is a choice escorted by a veil of sadness.