Looking now at a red roof 

The origins of the aforementioned roof

Told in a single story

From a single story.

This roof, whose once tired and weary shingles are now being peeled away  like

Blood

Red

Oranges,

During

Blood

Red

Afternoons

By

Blood

Red

Roofers

And then tossed down to the grass below,

Missing the open dumpster that exists  only for the purpose of refuse,

By miles and miles…

To mingle with nails and other debris that have also  fallen,

Like foreign entities onto native lands,

Puncturing

&

Then posturing as some sort of important landmark.

Embellishing a sort of summer salad  in this scenario,

Made up of ants that look like raisins,

And earthworms that look like onions,

&

Onions that look like onions.

Some of the other roofs watching,

Whose tops  are the same color of faraway deserts and deep blue oceans,

And even the noble homes,

The learned homes;

Whose tops include chimneys,

(And monocles)

(& tentacles certain times of the year)

Whose shingles

Know all  too well what smoke smells like,

Marvel at the bottles of half empty sports drinks that balance on the very

Edges of

This roof in flux.

-Knowing damn well they will never know what it is like to be recycled

Looking like perched birds on  a line,

Parrots of so many colors,

That have no place here among this cacophony of

Fire & brimstone.

Missing their rain-forests,

Missing their canopies.

Still they stand firm amidst

Heavy footsteps and

The pounding of the nail-gun,

Identifying  more and more  with claps of distant thunder,

Instead of the buzzing of  grasshoppers.

In more prehistoric times then these,

The reoccurring smell

&

Overall theme of  the thick black tar,

Coupled with the screams of velociraptors

&

Sheer magnitude of meteorites,

Usually would be indicative of a certain demise

&

In the best case scenario would lead to

Intact fossilization for future introspection inspection

(The Hall of Fame, in a way)

But these surrounding homes bear the acrid smell

Of the burning bones of dinosaurs

&

Phone-books

&

The screams of birds, evolved.

They embrace all the chaos.

They embrace all the construction.

The massive craters left by devoid  asteroids  were long ago filled with water,

&

 so many  lakes came to be;

Named mostly after ordinary names,

So

Water-skiers out in the deep being pulled by speeding boats

(Built and bound by fiberglass)

 And even the  children  wading in the shallows,

(Also built and bound by fiberglass)

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Who will one day walk tightropes…

Can observe and watch this home  gradually gain a new perspective.

Stand and clap  on the shorelines the home  gains a new and exciting hat.

This roof,

Formerly a smile missing teeth…on picture day.

Is now a roof to be reckoned with…on picture day.

A roof with an audience and a purpose.

Sticks and stones whipped up by the wildest tornadoes

Bounces right off,

Like artillery shells rolling off of armor;

Rain drops fall and immediately roll off  into the new

Stainless steel gutters,

Stainless steel spaceships,

Flowing faster in this vacuum then they ever did in the sky,

& being  so grateful for it,

Only to be expelled from the conduit

In a fashion similar to that of a waterfall  roaring off a cliff,

But there is no lagoon for the water to land here;

Instead it ends up spilling out

Next to the musty garage,

That houses a generator that has been colonized by spiders

&

Old newspapers, that have colonized countless oil spills.

Reaching its final destination ,

&

Then it will pool, and sink into the earth.

Near an old bicycle that never made its way to the curb.

Near the old triceratops that never made its way to the curb, either.

Neither of which ever got the lead in the school play;

Neither of which ever had the chance to walk the tightrope…

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