Above my head I hear the hammers sing
As roofers thwack the brand-new shingles down.
Our Shih-Tzu growls from her light slumbering,
Lids shivering in this construction zone.
The laughter of the Mexican workers
Falls like the ripped-up, hail-pounded shingles.
These men fight July’s heat like berserkers;
Though heavy and humid, the air tingles
With their languid, lunch-break-together joy,
And now I can hear the roofers singing
Some sad corrido where a border boy
Loses his life for love, and the ringing
Of the hammers on the heads of the nails
Falls into a rhythm that somehow lulls,
And the lazy dog’s light, raspy snore trails
The beat, and the Friday afternoon fills
With various musics, various love,
Various graces falling from above.
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