A French Roof

by Zach Roberge, River Editor

Let’s imagine I was building one of these back home.

I’d be up on slanted plywood in my glow-in-the-dark van shoes

One foot elevated higher than the other.

Both frantically grasping at the slope.

I’d take one hammer, one nail, all wobbly, I’d pound a tile down,

Then smash it to pieces.

 

These tops of buildings worry me.

They’re clutter among the carefully bricked roadways

With the clear, steel curves of the beautiful tram tracks,

and the quaint restaurants, the patisseries, the tabbacs

like cultural dominoes standing in soldiered lines

which create tall walls to walk between.

 

All I can think about are tiny droplets of moisture like termites

That must seep through cracks durring storms and fester

Mold in the framework of these beautiful buildings.