The Last Tin Roof

free write October 6, a Thursday


Beady was a small child, had
a bald head but for a few curls.
Didn't know what a train was,
didn't know how the moon felt,
wasn't sure about much but her pet
chicken, Ms. Veronica De La Rose.
Her mother wasn't a woman and her
daddy left when she was a hatchling
so no one cared if the swelling of her ankle
was going down or up.
It was going up and it was getting black
real black, real black.
Beady had a song she liked and
she sang it out loud quite loud
to her little sick chicken, Ms. Veronica De La Rose.
No neighbors minded.
She had a nice voice that floated
like a silk veil over the fences and
the tins of the roofs and it
sounded real nice when it would finally
land in your lap and hush you
usually 'til sleep or sometimes hush you awake.
Beady's bald head was bald all the way now
and Ms. Veronica De La Rose was dead since dawn.
The blackness of Beady's ankle enclosed
and took her eyes and settled them,
and the last tin roof fell
quiet for the echos of the veil.