by John Grey
We’ve spent a hard day roofing in hot sunatop 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 twistthrough rock and plantwhile 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 tileswhile 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 uselessfor the easy cruising life. All that’s left is a bunch of guyswith tattoos on our upper arms,undying thirsts, and a penchantfor filthy tales and one-night stands. If we don’t stop the leaks in the world, who will?