the workers
are on the house at seven
a.m.
hammers pounding,
chisels,
they're on the roof,
crawling like
ants
in heavy boots.
ladders are slung against the brick.
they are beating
the day lights out
of old wood,
bent nails, shutters.
it's too early for this,
I think
as I sit here
drinking coffee, wondering
how they got
into yard
with the gate latched.
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