The Roofers

Deserted roof

They’re repairing the roof opposite me.
One of the younger roofers, maybe the youngest one
And thus the one earning the lowest wage
Is working bare-chested.
I’m a bit far away, but
Judging by the silhouette
This chest appears largely consistent with
The beau ideal of a chest.
So, the roofer with the most beautiful torso
Has doffed his upper garment
While the other roofers, regardless of
The scorching August heat, keep their
Scrawniness or incipient potbelly hid under t-shirts.
These people are working on a roof
It is not a beauty contest
And they cannot know that someone
Seated at his laptop in front of a window
Is aware of the shapeliest roofer’s denuded thorax.
Nor can they be seen from the street.
Now why does only this one roof shirtless?
I’d be surprised if he were out for regaling the
Workmates with the flexes of his well-rounded muscles;
He doesn’t seem to be that kind of roofer.
But what do I actually know about him
Or the thoughts in a roofer’s head?
I who can barely distinguish this moving, nay, stirring
Profile, so outlined by the backlight of an early afternoon.


Version of August 26, 2010

Very deserted roof