Lapping each course in record two-four time,
The three-tab shingles overran the roof
Above, as hammer blows rained down hard rhyme
To render what was overhead sure proof
Against the elements. Three workers struck,
Their lugged soles pounding down the pitch in dance.
Ebullient Spanish flew, and then . . . the truck
Was gone, without a single backward glance.
Inside the house, now dazed by how the crew
Rattled its frame, and how their thunder shook it,
We set about to right what was askew,
Straightening every picture that was crooked.
Still stunned by that Flamenco’s plosive strain,
We waited for the lightning and the rain.