Roofers scrape the scaly lid
of an auto shop beside the house
where I live. Where I live
shirtless men tear at the black

scabs of a roof's old flesh, toss
scraps into the back of a truck
parked in the lot next to a house
where I live. Where I live

a tarp rattles at night, plastic
rustles, and trash is kicked along
pavement by wind. Roofers
curse and shell the tire shop's

peeling lid beside the house
where I live. Where I live
a tarp shakes all night; cans
land on pavement, tossed from

windows of cars that blur by
where I live. Where I live
windows are ladled red with
light your sun leaves me with.

Repairs are made to roofs which
will never cover me. As I read
the road between us, tire tracks
unscroll their tawdry calligraphy.

Any day now you shall arrive, roar
into my eye with your mountainside.
Where I live when I live where
landscape cannot survive you.