There are rooftop tile worshippers
In precarious prayer,
With terracotta sutra tiling
Held together by a faith concrete.
There are rooftop puddles
That never get the chance to dry
And mirror the reflection of the rolling hills
And cloudy skies.
There are schoolyard rooftops
With red and white laughing through black hair;
There is barking in the street.
There are clothesline rooftops
With human prayer flag attire
Pegged in drying trepidation
Under heavy, looming skies.
There are corrugated rooftops
Rusting on the equator of wet and dry.
There are windows that look into windows,
Steeples that hold up the holy sky;
There is a virgin bud and
Quarter bloom sunflower,
Standing side by side.
There is an erratic plan for town planning
That Lord Quito has defied,
Where rooftops sprawl the length and breadth,
Of the valley in the sky.
A dusken sky of horse and chariot,
Of pastel dragons and angel skeletons,
Writ in cloud and light
And set on Virgin-Mary-Blue.
An army of condensation soldiers
Is now storming down the hill,
Quenching the fireflies in the windows,
Turning the city to still.
The stars they all hold their breathing,
The moon she holds her fill-
No birds to roost,
Nor flowers to fold,
Just a city of window and roof.
Benjamin W Wild © copyright 2007