Dear Roofers

Today it is still light out at five and I am thinking ahead to the summer, to the days when you will toil tirelessly atop houses all around the city. I am thinking back, also, to the days when you made new the roof of our house on High Street, and Deonna led our movement to seduce you all with Otter Pops. Your presence on our back porch that week is a memory I cherish. Soon you will return to the suburban horizon, arms aching, backs glinting in the sun.

Though in the winter months I make proclamations that I prefer a gentleman who reads for hours on end, in the summer something shifts. In June I invite you to come to my door each night. You may wash your languor in my shower, after which you may take a cold beer from my fridge. Or two. Knock yourself out. And as you go to sleep I will read aloud to you from a magazine.

Alas, winter will come again, your ridiculous tan lines will fade and my lustful gaze will wither. Sadly, though our love may not be "as the eternal moods of the bleak wind," we'll both know that Summer will return. Be not offended, for months from now I will again come running down the sidewalk, my neck craned to ogle you, your muscles shining opalescent in the sun.