The air was as ancient as
The molds washed anew with the dew
I pushed on, backwards
Away from the rest of them
Prudent, and watchful
As if at any time,
When I avert my eyes
The sleeping soldier
Would read this as his cue
To attack, to ****.

I stumbled back
Accidentally bumping open a creaking door
I listened.
Drip, Drip, Drip
At times a rustle
At times, a shuffle
I even thought I heard whispers
And footsteps.
But, I knew I am prone to hallucination
So
I thought better of it,
And closed the door.
After we headed out,
We gave the worker his cue
And like ancient cataracts
The concrete poured.

When we have sealed the old
And welcomed the new
A voice inquired innocently,
“Where is Joe?”