iguanas in the pool house roof

on the gray patio around the pool,
the rain is giving new arms to puddles
and new mouths to grow
fat and gobble up the ground.
we are watching with
eyes hungry,
ears and skin soaking in the sound of
a million drops pounding
and the flood dripping from the ceiling onto
the floor.

inside the roof of the pool house
are several iguanas -
green scales and claws.
they are scratching their way
around the dark tunnels above
and I imagine them creating maps,
asking for directions.
I imagine them curling up in bed
and tucking in their small iguana children.
I imagine the beat of their tails
as the rhythm of lullabies.

Last night, I slept beneath
a tin roof.
It was raining then, too, and the storm
was music on the space above my head
and in the sound of breeze in the cracks
of wood panels making walls.
Early in the morning, a mango fell
on the roof.
I was afraid only for a second
and then I smiled.
It’s funny how things put together
sound pretty.

And it’s this afternoon,
sitting in the pool house
with iguanas and their busy schedules
that I am thinking:
It seems to me that somehow,
in spaces above our heads,
we are always making homes.