To Whom It May Concern

To whom it may concern:

Why do they make the shingles black?

Seems an ugly scar across the skyline, seems a boiling tar pit in the summer, seems a waste of color.

All monochrome 

All melancholy

And me 

So many were the times I waited there.

Only black to burn the hands and rough to grate the knuckles

And daring knees who scaled the drain pipe or the leaning shed out back.

All hot and baked, sun soft tiles

All rough and gritted pitch,

All empty

All black

And me

To wish into the autumn sunset and bleak midwinter sky

Oh many were the days I waited there

And as the summer fell away with light turned gold then slowly white,

To cast the shingles milky grey in fog.

I spread my arms across its warmth  and let the grit dig in my skin.

To take the last memory of sun 

To take the pain

To face the longing 

And learned to love the black

All empty 

All lonely

Like me

So many were the times I waited there

Now I've clambered back up here and wait on the black

I slipped a little on loose tar and cut my hand on a hail chipped edge.

A thin red line appears on my palm and the air around me turns as black as the roof,

All melting together.

And suddenly the stars seem close.

So close they're all around and I could reach them

Could pluck one down with my bloody fingers and hold it in my fist

Oh I wish... I wish...

...perhaps if I was taller

Or got a running start...