Just last night up here in the height of the roof,
Stored above the stair top near to the stars,
Hearing on the one ear the end of the dinner below,
A spoon scraping a plate and the talk gone ragged,
And on the other the storm starting up for the hell of it,
The waylaid wind hurling abuse at the walls
And threatening to deal the tiles off like a drunk,
The turning eye whose houseroom is my head
Reported sightings from above and below,
The world gone toes atop and belly behind,
A lampfish rising in the starry sea
Beneath our raftered hulk, a tongue trying its tip
Against a topless dome, known strangers in
The full dependence of their middle years
All comfortably aboard and borne upon
This timber navy recomposed in peace,
So loaded with the carriage of themselves,
And slung between two counterpulling poles
They could not see if I have stowed myself
With crates of toys or else the creak of age.

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