Phoning from the ant farm aisle at City Pets

I'm watching them half-envious, lover.
Ants dutifully bury their dead,
grieve quickly, then return still working,
the ceremony almost too brief.
They carry on. Crawl caved-in lives.
Lug loads 30 times their weight
through sandy passages dreary
as Seattle winter. Sometimes
two of them meet, caress
each other in darkness,
tap out a lack of space,
make their ways past

in tunnel freshly dug,
being oh so careful
not to prolong
any touch. Hurry on,
gloomy lifers without reprieve.
Forgive such babbling,
love. I really called to say
only three more stops --
two out east, one at the mall.
Keep your candlelight soft,
your wine red and warm. We'll lie together,
kissing all night in the hall.

Timothy Pilgrim