Night Poem, April 7, 2015


He is short and nimble over the top rung of the ladder

And onto the steep, slick slate

He steps lightly on the fragile layers

As if onto the grey scales of a dragon.

He does not look down or quiver as he unhands the ladder

His last connection with the ground, twenty feet away

But crouches his body low and steps up the slope, almost weightless

Like an angel over water.

He sees in the overlapping stones

Some fissure or crack

And lays his body down

Snug to the slope of the roof

Like an infantryman prone on the battlefield.

He pulls the calking gun up with the rope on his belt

The dangling tool clacks against the gutter.

Arms  extended, he works the hole or seam

Invisible to me.

Copyright 2015

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