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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On the roof next-door
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