We were shin­gling in the drizzle
of another century—I guess
we needed the money—and Mel
called out. He was sliding

toward the eaves on the far side
until Jerry rose and stretched down
from the peak to pull him back
into life. In the time since

I’ve made that dying sound,
more than once and even died
a little, face to face with someone
who could fire my sorry ass

and pic­tur­ing going home after.
I can feel Jerry set­tling back
on the plank, both of us
fishing nails from pouches,

the sound of hammers and talk
like a clat­ter­ing song of thanks.

Michael Lauch­lan has con­tributed to many pub­li­ca­tions, includ­ing Citron Review, New England Review, Vir­ginia Quar­ter­ly Review, the North Amer­i­can Review, Val­paraiso Poetry Review, Rap­pa­han­nock Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, Cum­ber­land River Review, and Belling­ham Review. Lauchlan’s recent col­lec­tion is Trum­bull Ave. from WSU Press. Another col­lec­tion is forth­com­ing from Salmon Poetry.