The Author as Ant

I don't suppose an ant is burdened by concern
For issues which are so large that they're not
Perceived by its antennae or its eyes or what it
Senses through its feet. The poor thing simply
Does its job, and when (or if) it ends its day,
It stares out at a dusky sky, concluding either
That, all things considered, quite a bit was done,
Or that more effort must be made tomorrow,
Once it's light, and I am thinking that I would be
Wise to emulate an ant. The planet warms. I've
Helped with that, but there is little I can do. The empire
Frays. Its subjects, pampered, stupid, worry every
Thread. Its leaders parrot dumb cliches. The arts
Are given over to in-jokes and gimmicks. No one
Who's not grubbing for a check has any time for
Them. I'll turn away, six legged, an insect. As such,
I observe that I have smoked a brisket and some ribs.
I cleaned the kitchen, did the best I could at work,
And took my motorcycle to 110. At my low level,
Much was done. I watch the sun slink off. A human,
I do so with alcohol, and, in the morning, when
The light returns, I'll try to keep my focus on
The little I can sense, and not be burdened by
Concerns which are too large for me.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 42 times
Written on 2021-08-07 at 11:33

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