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The roofers pounded

through lunch,

my weekly soup and book,

of a stranger’s poetry,

punctuated by summer labor.

Reading is always a revolt

against schedule,

eating at a table

the same unhurried rebellion.

If it catches on

our nation will savor.

The tar eyed crew

comes down the ladder

for their meal. They seem

glad of the work. Which

one of the crowd is the poet?

Nothing in the way they smile,

or sit, gives it away.

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Will Schmit

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