And it was, of course, a new umbrella,
Which he had left standing in a corner
Of the bedroom, behind a chair.
It was too late to turn around.
He crossed the street into the square.
A drop fell on his face, then another,
Then many. He began running.
No one, except his mother,
Knew what he was planning to do.
But he had thought it through,
And it was time. He wanted a new
Identity and a new lease on life.
He was sick of being poor Ned
Who couldn’t find himself a wife
If he tried. He’d be plain Jane,
One of the girls. Let the wind
Blow, let the rain
Fall, let the lights flicker
And go out. If he ran away now,
He’d only get sicker and sicker.
It was something he had to do.