Roofer’s Elegy

A utility ladder claps

thunder across the grey

metallic expanse, glass rain

fills in the gaps

between paint chips and bottle caps

on the doorstep below. 

Landlord Rick is back at it, 

it seems. He stops by to glue together

what he broke last week, 

ends up shattering a window

and leaving the gaping wound

to suck in the wind. 

I guess you’d think

a millionaire would hire a guy 

for such petty

fix-its but he’s got 

time and memory burning

a hole in his pocket

the way loose 

change incessantly interrupts

with its weight and sound defying

ignorance. 

Amongst it there’s probably 

vestiges of the untethered 

roofer split

open a few weeks ago.

The same mangled

concrete soaked in 

40-something-year-old brain. 

That sunshiny October morning

you split a cig and a pot of coffee 

in spite of breaking

bread. Next thing

you know there’s thunder 

with no lightning and a deadening

downpour that reminds you to give

God a courtesy call. Doesn’t matter

who. Could be

any god at all.