The Storm

I’m remembering one of your poems,
the one where you and a neighbor

are admiring the muscles of a young roofer,
the sun beating down on his golden shoulders,

your lips tighten and relax,
your thighs quivering like nails,

your sighs protect the naked house
from the threatening rain,

your neighbor goes back in.
That night you dreamed your made love

to that roofer while your husband snored.
Three houses down, the new roof, immaculate.