It wasn’t such a windy day that brought down
Twelve asphalt shingles from my roof.
But at twilight, I saw them there in a moment.
I saw them there as I took out my garbage.
I was sitting in my car waiting
The radio was on describing
How domestic terrorists had overtaken the capitol.
It was a nice roof when they installed it
Twenty-years-ago. Neighbors pointed and smiled.
And I was pleased to have one of the new
“Thirty-year-roofs.” It was guaranteed!
They had been aroused by
An orange-topped pretender
Who lived for promoting destruction.
Now there were twelve shingles down.
A roof has hundreds of shingles. Can this be so bad?
The man I called said they’d have to re-do the whole thing.
Apparently, even a few shingles down can lead to rot.
We’d learned to live with it:
The permission to use hateful speech openly;
The cozying up to Nazis; the glorification of slavery
Do I now have to strip the whole thing down?
Must I start over from scratch?
What about the guarantee? That company is dead and gone.
Can’t we just patch it up? Won’t that do to stop the rot?
The putrefaction of truth, and the general debasement of us all.
These aren’t easy to fix
These don’t just appear in a moment.
My roof had been solid, and now it has to be fixed.
Maybe there’s been rot there all along?
A good contractor can fix my roof, but it will be expensive.
Is there any way to fix this?
Lines written in the days following January 6, 2021