We are wired to work, like the ants
driven by scent. Marching in kind
to find new filigrees of food,
some plaster to enhance shelter.
When held back, we feel badly.
Seeing the long lines heading out
returning with smiles on their backs.
They are rewarded with rest, not we.
Unless we go out singly, scorning lines,
burrow in the direction of new scents.
If we begin to tell, we may be reviled.
But we can never thrive on their wiring.
Poet’s Notes ####
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The image for this poem has been misplaced. ;-(