Rain on This Roof

Now this roof above has holes, as if eaten up by mites.

They’ve gotten in the thatch, and in between the shingles,

and they’ve set themselves a serving on my outer shell

so that when the structure’s strength is lost it dies

and goes back to its foundation.

Oh boy—I’m “battering down the hatches”

and getting flaked by crust.

And as the storm this afternoon has sunken down

and swelled my wood, every cold shower now

brings out green mold in my damp and broken skull slats

still open to the threat of sun.

Oh joy—my young fibers get to be

the stuff like dirt and dust.

NEXT

--Poems from the Sprawl