Every Time You Leave
It’s not that I’m squalid alone, but rather
that soon after every time you leave,
those tiny black sugar ants emerge
from the gaps and cracks, from inside the walls
and from under the house, to mock you.
Little seasonal keystrokes, they strike across
the countertop, a jumbled diatribe,
a continuous scurried rail against our order,
never suspecting your blazing return,
never tiring of the line up for your sweet
sticky poison and your bleach-soaked rag.
{first published in Thunder Sandwich}
It’s not that I’m squalid alone, but rather
that soon after every time you leave,
those tiny black sugar ants emerge
from the gaps and cracks, from inside the walls
and from under the house, to mock you.
Little seasonal keystrokes, they strike across
the countertop, a jumbled diatribe,
a continuous scurried rail against our order,
never suspecting your blazing return,
never tiring of the line up for your sweet
sticky poison and your bleach-soaked rag.
{first published in Thunder Sandwich}