The ant meanders, authoring his way
Through dust and knacks-knicks. On my desk, he picks
Up speed when found; he knows it doesn't pay
To be observed, because I'll smash him, flick
His carcass off my fingers, and forget
Him, moving on to fresh intruders; still,
I wonder if he cares, or if he gets
Perspective. Ants are people too; a chill
Compadre, just two millimeters long
And dancing to a lyric I can't smell,
The ant seems ill-equipped for death. Along
The desk, that's all he gets -- a narrow hell
Of fingerprints and pheromones I don't
Divine. I should abide, but know I won't.
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