Poem-A-Day: Day 134

Poison Face

Scowling down
at the poison not doing a thing.
It sweeps the dry façade
bumbling like a it has special needs,
when all it seems to need
is nothing more than work.
No, not work,
something other,
playing foolishly with balance,
the temporal order of things
shuffled in a way
that blissfully stops time
in nothing more catastrophic
than dropping a mug
into shattering molds
scolding bare feet madness.

Scowling down,
at the ants
nurturing their own poisonous means,
acting as people,
as people will.