We listen in the deep of night as the wind picks up, and loose asphalt shingles bang against each other. Sometimes, in the daytime, they clatter under the feet of touching-down- crows. Twigs drop from the trees; a sifting of dry needles gathers in the roof valley. We don't know how long this roof stayed over the heads of everyone who's ever lived in this house, before we came along. We don't know if it's ever been changed since it was built in the '40s, or how many times it might have been repaired. When finally we call around for an inspection, the roofer that comes gives his verdict: it's old, high time it's replaced. Bracing for the quote (we know this isn't a warm or witty saying), we wonder how we can afford it. The roofer says he will work with us and try to meet us where we are—on his tablet, he shows pictures of his handiwork, so many befores and afters. I take pride in my work, he says; I work with my men on every job. I don't sit around in some office. He points out the clean lines, the neat joins, nothing that overlaps or juts out where it shouldn't: I am an artist. And I won't begrudge him that, knowing how function is more than the tuck and trim of parts, more than the aggregate of gravel, sand, and bitumen shading this space where we might safely dream.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
