the radio was tuned to the county high football game 
Rain pounded the tin roof then moved on    dripping
in delicate percussion through the birdshot holes    

Near the naked bulb a strip of flypaper hung from the rafter    
amber tongue of preservation — almost science 
but no one cared for the study    The clock was running out    

Hope rose and fell with the fortunes of sweat and soil    
On the workbench dregs from one upended quart of oil 
drained into another as if salvage might even the score    

No one had replaced the flypaper for years    In the bucket
nails pulled from barnboards waited by a plastic milkjug    
its mouth carved wide with his buckknife    Her broom scraped

dry leaves across the concrete floor while he tapped out
crimps and plinked the chosen into the jug    Overhead 
housefly horsefly moth and gnat dangled in unmarked time