Midnight Nemesis

by Douglas Turner

THE ANT crawling
on my wall might
be some kind of
 
super-ant, a prodigy,
a gnarled warrior
known for his (or her)
 
exploits on the insect
killing fields, those
crimson battles in the
 
dewy grass of dawn's
first light, when he (or she)
and the other ants laid
 
siege to a stronghold
of potato bugs, or colluded
 
to decapitate an injured
grasshopper, or devoured
 
the corpse of a sparrow
until nothing remained
 
but the frail caving bones —
and I wonder as I approach
 
with a shoe to squash the
ant's life,
 
                   What am I getting into here?

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