There are men in the crawlspace again.
I like to imagine them happy there in the dark
as if they are nesting and staying warm.
And not the hungry hands lurking below
digging through the dirt looking for gold.

I hear them scraping and chirping
as I wait to fall asleep on my
inclined pillow which uses gravity to restrain
the creeping acid in my throat.
Do they think of me?

When my time comes to join them,
will I go with blankets and a water bottle,
or will I be naked and itchy?
What kind of scraping will I endure
as I trip and scrunch through the tiny gate?

Wrapped in plastic sheets and tools laid down,
there are men in the crawlspace again.
Each day a little water pushes through the brick
and seeps into their throats.
Drip, drip, drip until I see puddles in my driveway.

There are men in my crawlspace again
waiting for everything that was promised them.