Roofmen

Over my head, the roofmen are banging shingles into place
and over them the sky shines with a light that is
almost past autumn, and bright as copper foil.

In the end, I will have something to show for their hard labor—
unflappable shingles, dry ceilings, one more measure of things 
held safely in a world where safety is impossible.

In another state, a friend tries to keep on living
though his arteries are clogged, 
though the operation left a ten-inch scar 

and, near his intestines, an aneurysm blossoms 
like a deformed flower. His knees and feet 
burn with constant pain.

We go on. I dont know how sometimes. 
For a living, I listen eight hours a day to the voices 
of the anxious and the sad. I watch their beautiful faces

for some sign that life is more than disaster—
it is always there, the spirit behind the suffering,
the small light that gathers the soul and holds it

beyond the sacrifices of the body.  Necessary light.
I bend toward it and blow gently.
And those hammerers above me bend into the dailiness

of their labor, beneath concentric circles: a roof of sky,
beneath the roof of the universe,
beneath what vaults over it.

And dont those journeymen 
hold a piece of the answer— the way they go on 
laying one gray speckled square after another,

nailing each down, firmly, securely.

 

© Patricia Fargnoli