The prompt today was “reprieve.” Sometimes what seems to be a reprieve doesn’t quite live up to expectations. Here’s a poem I wrote three years ago that tells the tale of such a time.
No Reprieve
Caught short by the rainy season, I should have known better.
Though I’d left home high and dry, I knew I’d soon be wetter.
Defenseless in the downpour, I ducked into a store.
Just to get some shelter, I rushed in through that door.
I felt that I was lucky as this store was full of stuff,
though finding what I needed might be sort of tough.
The store clerk shuffled up to me, though he could barely stand—
an umbrella just as old as him held up in his hand.
Lucky when I chanced upon this ancient wrinkled fella,
he happened to be carrying a really big umbrella!
I opened up my pocket book and located a fiver.
Now I wouldn’t spend this day wet as a scuba diver!
But when I left that thrift store with my practical new find,
I found that I was actually in the same old bind.
For opening up my parasol, I uttered “What the heck?”
As rivulets of water ran down my head and neck.
The purchase I’d just made, I found, would be no help at all.
I hadn’t noticed that the shop was St. Vincent de Paul.
The fault was no one else’s. I know it was mine, solely.
I should have realized sooner that my purchase would be holy!
(Please note: St. Vincent de Paul is a secondhand store run by the Catholic Church.)
