Blogs

You shoo the bug with one swift swipe,

then spy another, what's that type -

a carpenter ant, a termite, a bee?

The Winged Ant: it's morphed all three.

This primeval creature bares its teeth

on your coveted floor of herringbone teak.

Once it spreads its wing-spanned frock

your subterranean world is rocked.

This show is not a solo act,

mighty offspring have got his back,

armies of aunts and uncles berserk,

that's not dysfunction, it's how ants work.

They outsmart Generation X and Y,

the hippies, yuppies, family guy,

like-minded carpenters foraging wood,

colonial loyalty for the greater good.

They build their commune on drops of dew,

a raisin, rice grain; their needs are few.

You must respect the ground ants seize,

they have no time for plasma TVs,

necessities trump a frivolous fate,

sons and daughters carry fifty times their weight.

Regarding invasions, it's prudent to hone

the usage and damage that's done to your home,

the years it took to build a foundation,

the four-year, full-funded, high education

that leads your charges toward unemployed quandary,

fraternity tattoos and take-home laundry,

loyalty that runs as far as the car

or at least the gasoline credit card.

Meanwhile you ponder the ramification

of leaving your pests for a weekend vacation,

invasions require extermination,

so what's the solution: evacuation?

The spoils have gone to the victor askew

as your floorboards are tunneled away in the dew

by savvier parents who work through the night

to emerge for mating - a grand, nuptial flight.

Face it, tough-love's not your parenting style,

your fate is to live and let live your ant pile.

- Heather Newman

Heather Newman is a member of the South Mountain Poets and has studied with Lisa Bellamy at The Writer's Studio. Her work has been published in Two Hawks Quarterly and E-Chook.