Rattle

In light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs ting under the rising flames of sunlight, sounds of tin are stretched into rhythm. He arises, rolls off the edge of comfort tramples on himself as if he had a baggy skin. Morning on the edge of a medium-sized mid-west city, “This summer I will inflate or die”, he thinks, “this late chiming morn, I will behead habitual pretensions”. “First-rate breakfast tea”, he thinks. sucking his lips. Minor keys ping as a tin roof warms up, gradually low-grade whispers splutter into tuneful rattles. ‘Those sounds’, he thinks, ‘I can use somewhere, after all I am a poet of sorts’.