A kaleidoscope of roofers 
skim rafters,            	flick along ridges,
like a tongue with no restraint.
            All morning 
their hammers         	thump & echo 
as they slap down shingles    pound thrap, pound thrap,
then re-consider,        
as if the roof were a past 
that needs sorting out.
                    	How do we repair 
the damage in our lives 
wrought by naivety & lingering regret?        
                         Some days, I want to tear out 
the underlayment of a time & rework the story 
I’ve told myself,     a false narrative
that shields the truth           the way a roof
protects a home’s inner rooms 
from elements harsh & unexpected.       
                           At twenty, I endured
the whims   	of one–	older, trusted--
then lived with the aftermath
for years.     	There remains in me a need
to take up caulk & ladder, 
& chalk off points between the bearable, 
the blessed, 
& the horrific          	in the manner of the workers 
who utilize experience & thick rolls of papered tar
with an eye for what’s salvageable	& what needs to go.
                    	By 3PM, the neighbor’s roof 
is shored up & renewed. The cacophony 
of clanging tools & shouts 
runs silent 
        like a well-kept secret
before it comes to light.
               Their working day, complete.
Their debris, hauled away.    
 
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