Damages

Younger, I hauled shingles up ladders,
flopped them onto roof jacks,
scampered to nail down tabs,

straddled the peaks and thought
only that the view was good
and days were short. Now,

I patch my wind-torn roof
working slowly and watching footholds.
Rather than space, I stare

into a concatenation of breaths
and heartbeats, a made and counted thing.
On blocks of matching homes,

our chimneys puff all in a row.
The emerald borer grays ash trees
along our street. Pines in the distance

have gone brown from defoliants.
What I can’t see–arrests,
neighbors sent away, and men

whose threats raise welts.
We wait out storms, endure
a season of beetles and kings.