Roofers ride their ship of shingles
through the ocean of day.
Rock music and radio ads cut their way
at the prow, as a chorus of hammers
shimmers in their wake.
Old tiles crash off the sides.
A reversing truck alights with an exhale
of brakes. The sun is a tyrant.
The breeze, when it rises
is a sip of fresh water.
I wrote this poem-sketch while sitting in my yard and listening to roofers work on a house nearby. Aware of how comfortable I was in that moment compared to them, I thought about how loud music like what they were playing can be helpful when you’re doing something that, no matter what, just has to get done. Seeing them walk along the roofline reminded me for some reason of the boat-shaped play structure my childhood friend’s grandfather built for us a long time ago. I wasn’t close enough to take a picture, so here’s a stock image of a boat’s wake instead.
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