The crawlspace is accessed through
a knee-high cutout in my room covered
with a nailed on piece of plywood
painted to match the walls. Behind it
is a rustling, too loud and singular to be mice.
Squirrels, most likely, but I’ve heard stories
about an attic full of bats, an apartment
overrun with breeding opossums,
a woman who had absolutely no idea
there was a homeless man living in her crawlspace
until she opened it during some home renovations.
I imagine all of them on the other side
of that makeshift partition, hunkered down
in the pink insulation. When night falls they’re roused –
raccoons, bats, possums, squirrels –
by the homeless man frying up bologna
sandwiches on his camping stove.
They chatter amongst themselves
while we day-dwellers dream, praying
that we never become unsatisfied,
that we never find a reason to open the door.