Salvageable

wherein

like irony

someone grows

The last sheet of tin roofing slides into place like a word I've never learned. The soft patter of fall rain ceases, except where it dribbles, through holes torn into tin sky by the reversal of screws. Repurposed like old tropes in noir detective novels: rough around the edges but serviceable. Standing in a rusted halo of relief - from the rain, from a sense of failure, from the stagnation of empty fun house mirror pages pulling my reflection out like unspooled taffy. I reach into the pinprick of screws in rain heavy overall pockets; one screw into hand thumb the other between my lips and climb the ladder again.