It will be easy. One arm
or a tractor with a chain
could topple it.
The hayloft is clogged
full of mice
and taxed each year.
It was there as kids
we hung a tire for a swing
dropped it from the rafters
as a murderer
breaking his neck
a foot from the floor.
We went naked up there too
without a second thought
and loved to pee
in a dry corner
while no one knew
the difference.
Now we grow anxious
at the John Deere
hauling itself over.
Each vital column
is chained
one at a time.
The first two are nothing
barely a creak
but the third sends
the center of the roof
down through the loft
and we scatter
like a cloud of sparrows.
Half caved-in the entire bulk
is up on one crutch teetering
in the wind. The tractor like a dog
drags something dead
off through the grass.
It’s nearly dark too risky
fumbling inside with a chain
so we account for everyone
leave for home
and once there
snap off the lights
knowing it will all be done
overnight without us
coming down perhaps
one piece at a time
as slowly as it went up
and by morning
more sure of ourselves
we’ll fire it
watching out for the flames
the grove
which is quietly
filling up with owls.
