The first morning of Three Mile Island： those first disquieting， uncertain，

    mystifying hours.

    All morning a crew of workmen have been tearing the old decrepit roof

    off our building，

    and all morning， trying to distract myself， I've been wandering out to

    watch them

    as they hack away the leaden layers of asbestos paper and disassemble

    the disintegrating drains.

    After half a night of listening to the news， wondering how to know a

    hundred miles downwind

    if and when to make a run for it and where， then a coming bolt awake

    at seven

    when the roofers we've been waiting for since winter sent their ladders

    shrieking up our wall，

    we still know less than nothing： the utility company continues making

    little of the accident，

    the slick federal spokesmen still have their evasions in some semblance

    of order.

    Surely we suspect now we're being lied to， but in the meantime， there

    are the roofers，

    setting winch-frames， sledging rounds of tar apart， and there I am， on

    the curb across， gawking.

    I never realized what brutal work it is， how matter-of-factly and harrow-

    ingly dangerous.

    The ladders flex and quiver， things skid from the edge， the materials are

    bulky and recalcitrant.

    When the rusty， antique nails are levered out， their heads pull off； the

    underroofing crumbles.

    Even the battered little furnace， roaring along as patient as a donkey，

    chokes and clogs，

    a dense， malignant smoke shoots up， and someone has to fiddle with a

    cock， then hammer it，

    before the gush and stench will deintensify， the dark， Dantean broth

    wearily subside.

    In its crucible， the stuff looks bland， like licorice， spill it， though， on

    your boots or coveralls，

    it sears， and everything is permeated with it， the furnace gunked with

    burst and half-burst bubbles，

    the men themselves so completely slashed and

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