You come out with the ants at night
Out of the woodwork
When the work of building needs to rest
The creak of bones is loudest
So the building and the ants and you move at night.

You debated for twenty snores
before daring to shift the mound and scuttle his arm
The longer you waited to ease the bone aches
Body heat and neck vice,
The more depressed you became thinking
The whole situation masochistic.

Finally, you roll and pull-ey
Your limbs out of reach,
Pad down the stairs relishing
That quiet space opening within your head
Downstairs you re-arrange the kitchenaid
Take off your underwear and
Examine your knees in the mirror.
Your knees creak, the ants creep
And you ask yourself if you can keep building another year.