Rattle

On light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs ting under the rising flames of sunlight, alloy is stretched into ping-pong rhythms. He arises, rolls off the side of comfort For a moment tramples on himself as if he had too much baggy skin. Morning on the edge of a medium-sized city. This summer I will inflate or die, he thinks, this late chiming morn, I will behead habitual pretensions, cast my anchored mind upon uncharted waters. Minor keys ding as plated roofs tick and clack. Those sounds’, he thinks, I can use somewhere - After all, I am a poet and do I not prattle and rattle when stirred?