The Men On The Roof
The men on the roof wear hard hats on top of their baseball caps
and don’t stay the recommended six feet apart. They stomp around
and hug and throw their arms out while they improv a tap dance.
They take turns peering over the edge of the building. They are glowing
neon and cranking the music up. Hello down there, they say to the kid
still on training wheels. She puts her elbows up and pedals away pink.
The stack of plywood on the ground says EXT or EAT. Don’t let it
get your goat, unless your goat’s been got already. Turn the hammering
into an eight-count, or news: Today we will report the numbers, but first
we want to hear from you. Everybody’s a team now. Everybody’s stronger
together. Except for the men on the roof, who have always been strong.
They don’t go home over lunch to take an online core-building yoga class.
They aren’t craving definition. They were all born in the Year of the Rat,
likable by all, and the last shall be first. They throw us a rope, say Hold on.
Do they know how we look up to them? The men on the roof will save
the world with safety vests and face masks. With Yuengling. Bobcats.