Noel Sloboda

The new roof makes his ranch
watertight. But those plates
under the black rubber skin, pinning
down the insulation board, stick out.
One sixteenth of one inch shows.
Pimples ready to erupt. Worse,
they reveal his uneven hand,
weaving across the roof, the work
of an amateur who keeps on
even after a fourth beer.

If he’d known, he would’ve been more
careful. Still, they’d show, fists
punching a dark blanket above.
Not enough for standing water
but disrupting the surface
intended to keep out the weather.
It’s not enough, he fears,
just to have a roof overhead.

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