by John Grey
We’ve spent a hard day roofing in hot sun
atop a house that we’ll never be able to afford.
Sore backs and arms, sweat poking through every pore,
we must look as damaged as the ancient truck that brought us here.
But then Christmas arrives in the shape of the place’s owner.
It’s cold beer for all of us.
We grin like pigs in swill.
In heavy boots, shorts and grubby t-shirts,
we sit down by the guy’s koi pond,
dangling our feet over the water,
watch bright orange fish slowly twist
through rock and plant
while swapping jokes
and talking up the coming Friday night
into an orgy.
Refreshed and slightly drunk,
we crush our cans in our fists.
Why not. We were the ones that
risked life and limb three floors up,
who slammed nails into tiles
while our skin burned and muscles
did everything but spill blood.
The owner can afford not to be us.
The koi trade off being born dumb and useless
for the easy cruising life.
All that’s left is a bunch of guys
with tattoos on our upper arms,
undying thirsts, and a penchant
for filthy tales and one-night stands.
If we don’t stop the leaks in the world, who will?
