Ants

and who are we, we ants, under this
tent of blue, marking time with our
feet as we secure the crumbs the
grasshopper has let drop from his table

brocaded, heavy with victuals and wine
(we'll enjoy them later, in the dark,
after all are asleep) glittering red
and gold, they flex their green limbs

and chirrup, chirrup (a pleasant sound,
a summer sound) before the winter,
the seven years of famine, soggy-wet
and cold before the

seven years of plenty promised to all
we ants, busying ourselves with our hoardings,
the quick calculations of need and
want, those shoes will last one more

season, the soup may be extended yet,
with nothing gone to waste
we should be fine---didn't we all
start out with the linoleum?