It was the late summer of his life
and he perched on the brown slate roof,
his arm shakily slung round the chimney
as if holding onto a brick house wife,
her reasons for remaining cold, aloof
notwithstanding: she was no enemy,
in fact, had his back, packed no knife,
as the stars stayed put, illuminating proof
of soot, and a slope he sensed now, dimly.
So let's leave him be, in summer at first light
with smudged cheek, he belongs on this roof:
a weary sweep, who fell asleep by his chimney.
Dennis Mahagin’s writing appears in magazines such as Juked, 3 A.M., 42opus, PANK, Storyglossia, Smokelong Quarterly and Stirring. Friend him on Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/scruffy123/statuses/54281885257437184