Under The Table

We live under here.

Outside, the poison berry bush shivers at a breeze,

but we live under here,

bumping our heads on the underside

of the table,

squeezing our limbs close-

knees under chin sitting

waiting

hoping

we won't rustle

the cloth.

When the room is quiet, we push

and push and push away

what we love the most

from out from under here.

and no one ever looks, 

or thinks of us as missing,

though we've been living under here 

since that day (how long ago?) the crust fell

and we followed it.

We live under here 

while hunger gnaws at what these crumbs

have yet to fill.