January 8, 2012

Angels

Sweet music from
the Mexican roofers
plays through the ceiling,
crude hammers
drive the nails home,
my roof is old
but will not be abandoned.
Rude shadows walk
across my sunlit blinds,
their footsteps
following close behind.
I will see when
at last I awaken
how my soul was kept
from approaching rain,
how it is I will not
be forsaken,
knowing they have
come for me again.