The Boy on the Roof
A poem about a stranger

Out there on the roof he stands, Doing what roofers do. Two red gloves protect his hands, Cheeks the same colour, too.
I watch him as he sets down tiles, Focused, sharp, precise. Every movement so intentional, I bet he’s really nice.
He mouths along to the radio, I can’t hear it, but I sing along as well. Gazing from my windowsill, He’s a thoughtful boy, I can just tell.
This beautiful roofer just up there, Working within the rain. I hope he’s happy, I hope he’s loved. And I hope tomorrow he’s back again.
