This is a short tale of the common red ant,
who isn’t your mom or dad’s sunburned sister.
A red ant’s life is not especially exciting
except at your picnics, where self inviting.
They tire of eating on seeds or a plant,
couldn’t care less if you’re a miss or mister,
they’re there for burgers and homemade stew,
and for dessert, stick some stingers in you.
See that brown mound a few feet off your spread,
the one that’s about a foot or even more high,
and the tiny red army marching from it your way?
These ants easily sniffed out your outdoor buffet,
they’re starving from digging tunnels, so it’s full steam ahead,
they can’t resist the scent of your fresh apple pie.
They’re prepared to munch away right under your nose,
then carry food to their queen, who keeps them on their toes.
Do this, but don’t even think of doing that,
It seems “they” are always telling us so.
Some listen to them ”at the drop of a hat”,
but who “they” are we don’t really know.
“They” say medicine X will quickly end your woe,
while another “they” says medicine Y is the one
to end your troubles before they’ve begun.
Some listen blindly to whatever they hear,
thinking if “they” said it, it has to be true.
When two contradictory sayings both ring sincere,
some accept both as knowledge, seldom wondering from who.
Who are “they” anyway, those whose “wisdom” so many accrue?
Wrapped up in an adage, or simply words of advice,
some eat up whatever “they” say, slice by slice.
Then there are others just a bit more skeptical,
those who believe they analyze, and think
their head is more than a food receptacle.
Let’s visit such a panel, perhaps from the missing link,
but no salesman’s going to sell them a spare kitchen sink,
in fact nothing at all based on what the evasive “they” say,
these panelists have their own reasons to display.
He stayed in the bathroom, staring into the mirror,
long after finishing his shave,
and, not pleased with what he saw,
he had to admit, to time he was a slave.
He turned his head left and then right,
pulling and stretching his face,
but every time he removed his hand,
the wrinkles popped back into place.
And what were those little “feet”
at the corner of his eyes,
he hadn’t even been close to crows,
but time had delivered an unwelcome prize.
He ran his fingers through his hair,
at least the strands that remained,
and wondered how they got so gray,
a mystery unexplained.
The bright glare of the ceiling lights
made the top of his head brilliantly shine.
He couldn’t recall growing up that way,
what had he done for time to malign?
Certain he had been born with just one chin,
he could only guess chins must replicate,
but didn’t see any use for the extra one now,
why had time given him such a fate?
BlogoSquare