A small boy spits.
Landing his shoe on it,
he smears tiny black specs
‘cross the lumpy concrete
Inside his sea
of limbs and bad breathe,
the small boy contemplates

Who put this soul
inside of my body?
Why aren’t I an ant?
Why do I matter?
Why don’t the ants
Surely, if they did,
I, a small boy, could
not conquer them
so easily as this.

He plants another loogey;
This one loaded with snot.
He pokes his finger into the center;
The little black mound, wet,
like an anal sphincter.
He pushes on,
past the entrance
to the underground.

Ants come crawling out,
like an orphan parade,
up his freckled arm.
The small boy shakes them off,
stomping his feet, as though
following some perverse
Left. Right. Then right again.

The small boy knows
he is alone out there.
But inside his skull,
he will watch himself
for years to come—
contemplating death.
He feels nothing for the ants.
For years to come—
he feels nothing for the ants.
They would not have grown up
to cure cancer, he decides.
They would not have become
famous musicians.
The ants, he decides,
were born to die.

written on 12/18/2011 by: Matt Kane