A Broken Umbrella in a Thunderstorm

Echoing up the street,
a busker's trumpet
warms vicious rainfall.
A woman catches
my eye, smiles politely;
I return an unknowing
grin.

Somewhere
between here and there
I contemplate a metaphor,
for the rain,
for you,
looking upon me from
a sheltered balcony,
and not beckoning me
in.

If you knew I was outside
your door, rapping my
knuckles against the wood,
would you even throw me
a towel? Or have you
thrown in your last one?

Should I give someone
else my umbrella before
sentencing them to rain;
wicked winds?