One small umbrella, the husband has to hold.
The streets are floods of water, the sky is gray and cold.
With this he must protect her dress, her person and her face.
Her dainty feet must endure the wet, but surely she’ll keep her lace;
Dry, and what of him, but he has an overcoat.
Now if he just had a carriage, a puppet’s tent or boat.
~ ~ ~
Or maybe the umbrella is just for her.
The reddish fabric matches her skirt.
Either way, though fussiness crinkles his eyes,
Though serving his wife occurred a thousand times.
Still he’s brave to attack the wind and rainy fall,
And use as his only weapon, a nearly-opened parasol.