Sunday, July 5, 2009


Hungover, bright May, on the roof again,
Shakes deposited across the steep incline,
Two-by-four studs nailed here and there, since ten
C-notes don't get you scaffolding, or wine

To replace afternoon sweat. Greg, the ‘boss‘:
"If you fall off, soon’s you hit ground, you're fired."
Ripped tippler wants to skim the account; his loss,
Since Roy and I would strap his ass to a tire

If the Prime Ministers get passed from
The King of Archimedes Street to this shifty
Pest trying to fob off the tough tasks, rum
Flask in tartan shirt. Want a rift? See?

Start your starter shakes along the gutter line;
Tote your own bundles, strip the faded tar.
Nine hours left, boss, you'd fade away in the mine.
Couldn't cut it in Stewart, more time in the bar.

Powder-blue chalk lines snapped; wake up, dopey boss! --
Time to hook inside the top floor, King's daughter
Strutting through: "Guys're doing a great job -- awes -
ome!", smile a protractor. I know I oughter

Get back on the roof but I have to say
"Dormer's not the only protrusion",
As she feigns shock with a coy sashay.
Sun's climbing, I'm Icarus in collusion

With Prometheus, taking both sides:
Splayed on Earth, soaring cock-of-walk on apex.
Hammer those shakes, Roy! We'll let doofus deride
His alter ego, mumbling while his tape rests

Against dumb arms. Let's finish our own jobs
And hit the backroom Chinese restaurant:
Gambling; vodka in teapots; Mandarin gobs
Of Buddha's Feast chicken strips; Tsing Tao wants

In bottles three-at-a-time. Our waiter
Stoic and proud, quiet with folded-down palms.
Somewhere the sun sets. Leagues of algae shift. Later,
The wide working-day memories calm.

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