Dave's Ant Farm


I work on Dave's Ant Farm.
The wages are execrable
But Dave leaves us mostly alone.
Unless I push his big red buttons.
Then we go at it terrifically.
We're like the Monitor and the Merrimack
Rounds pounding into one another
In a victor-less exhumation of old rage.

The only other concern is, in darker moments, 
With Dave a little bored or vexed in spirit
With his sundry pressures
He is capable of pouring small amounts
Of sulfuric acid down one of the holes.
And then he's around a lot. Watching. 
Eating his seaweedy lunch. Contemplating 
It seems, what to do about his mistress
In the Balkans. All that whiteness.
And his dream of metallized hydrogen.