"Pocket Lint Umbrellas"

It seems like every time I break a finger,
I have to improvise a splint
Out of medical tape and incense sticks
Because I lack more appropriate materials.
It seems like every time I drive
It’s raining like the sky’s ripped asunder
And it's falling down in huge chunks of condensed cloud.
The chunks back up drainages
And the roads are all chunked up
And my screen is chunked up because my wipers are defunct.
So I pull over and walk miles through the rain without an umbrella.
It’s always the same.

I get used to it.
The way we all get used to it.
The way we get used to carcinogens and radiation from TV.
It’s like when I play that card game Hearts on the computer.
I usually always lose, which figures, but isn’t the point.
The point is that every time the game’s over the computer flashes, “Deal again?”

It flashes, over and over.
If I played it a million times,
Would I be any better at comprehending the strategy?
Why do I dwell on it?
Since my eyes are glued to my particular computer screen,
And not going anywhere for a lifetime, shouldn’t I give it another shot?

Because it seems like everything is like the weather.
And it seems like the only thing I can do about it,
Is make an umbrella from my pocket lint.