Sewer Drain

The pieces lay like little turds,
Strewn about in bunched up herds.
Wyes and elbows, forty-fives,
Resting under cloudy skies.

Waiting for their gluey marriage,
Bound to be a route of carriage.
Out of sight beneath the slab-
A lesser role was never had.

I stare at them, I scratch my head.
Now what was it the plumber said?
I bend and reach, my pants drop lower.
This sure is going slow,
and slower.

But I carry on,
I toil and stoop,
And someday this
will carry poop.