Surefooted men work hard on the roof.
Their job: to make sure it's all leak-proof.
But in the heat, they're baking
and the work is back-breaking.
Of their travails I'll not be aloof.
WTFWT@&#@* I shouted at
Thunderous banging from above
Flinging my blanket off I looked outside, to
Watch roofers climbing up my apartment building
The cat leaping, running and seeking a place to hide
roofers in the rain
spared from sun
hummingbirds dancing
a hailstorm of roofers loud in her study room- her peaceful appeal
1/28/2020
Living in NEW YORK CITY and going to tar beach
For most NEW YORKERS this was a treat.
Taking your beach chairs, towels, and blankets
And a radio to the roof.
Some would come up with shirts and pants
As the roofers began to dance.
Listening to ALLEN FREED, COUSIN BRUCIE, and DICK CLARK
And seeing the treetops in the park.
We did not need to go to concerts downtown
All you had to do was look around.
We would lie on the blankets taking in the sun
Or dancing to the music and having lots of fun.
We would gather as groups and start to harmonize
With every roof joining in – it is easy to visualize.
A crescendo of voices floating in the air
With people looking out their windows
And their voices they would share.
A water hose connected to an apartment below
Where we could cool off and water balloons to throw.
You could take your suburbs, your farms and little towns
But nothing to compare to the NEW YORK CITY sounds.
Haiku 64
Oklahoma heat
roofers sweating at first light
crucible of woe
Men at work, bumper to bumper
tensile traffic, thick black bitumen.
Everything seems to last longer
then that grey granulated concrete
that extends from Bodega, Cali-
fornia to Savannah, Georgia.
Blacktop pot-fill smells like
the solid and searing work of roofers;
hardhat knuckle down workers,
men that stretch skyscraper towers,
or suspend themselves over
the ledge of the Golden Gate Bridge.
If only this endless line of steel
on rubber wheels could steam roll
past the frustrated flashing lights
and pinstriped lattes honking horns.
If only these orange jump suites,
(sloth shaped men on armrest shovels,)
spent less time blathering like this poem,
we’d all be able to get to work.
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