Ants

The ants enter the room
scurry down the walls,
across my desk,
on to my lap,
as if on a mission.
Held to some master plan 
I can only assume
to understand.

I stomp on them 
but still they keep coming, day
After day.  It is a hopeless war
I’ve waged.
I stomp and new recruits arrive
to fill their ranks.
Their determination is collective
mania.

The idea of them is now planted 
in my brain.  Last night one
of them landed on my head.
I awoke with a start. 
When I turned on the light
it slipped under 
my pillow.

Though I’ve sealed the room
they keep coming. Unfailingly.  
Their bodies glazed 
in black armor.  
And I am beginning to think
they want something
	Larger than themselves
        To hold in their pincers
	And devour, something
         Sweet and succulent,
	Supreme like God.
 as they carry their dead away.

© Armand Garnet Ruffo