The Verdict of Zinc

Day does not begin with light,

but with the judgment of the roof.

September speaks in rain on zinc,

and its verdict is one word: Negative.

A man lies awake inside the sound,

able-bodied, made useless by water.

The roof becomes a drum.

He becomes the silence that listens to it.

Elsewhere, others sleep through it —

the rain a lullaby, not a ledger.

Here, his strength runs downward,

out with the water, into an indifferent sky.

The sky keeps no records.

It does not hear the asking.

It does not know his name.