I cross through town where the paisley small houses litter the garden path.
Atop a house, the men worked,
pressing each scaffolding into the roof with their bare hands.
The bright sky blasted blue, their figures dressed in pristine white corduroy.
Yes, this was heaven, or another place,
where they each carried with them the laughter of the other.
Sixty three feet high
they flew across each bannister, collecting the morning speech in their movements.
Here they stood, cleaning the town, with each dedicated plan,
each speck-aligning against the mist to make it newer,
and there they stood,
jostling along the clouds with their old language and some music playing on the
radio. Their sound measured itself against the town below, in white, hovering above it all.
Each cell interlinked, touching the trees.
We are here
they seem to say, without glancing at me,
we watch out for each other.