In and Out of My Shadow

Nevertheless, I dislike/ The way the ants crawl/
In and out of my shadow. Wallace Stevens
 
Smash-scrunch-crunch-smash
again smash: 1-2-40-100-127,
a scattering of ant bodies
–the parade of ants creeping
no longer across my kitchen floor,
my guilt.
 
My heart is heavy as my hand.
All this death, yet I have
murdered no one, just the promise,
such a little promise, I had promised:
I tried to call, but there was no signal.
 
In the park, far away, where they are 
camping out, my son and grandson 
are waiting       over breakfast
they are waiting       after lunch
 
a promise is a promise
I did try to call    but
couldn’t get through.
 
dining alone in the night
beside the campfire     no longer waiting
in the dark in the park, where
I had assured them I would arrive
by 10 am. But I did not, could not.
 
Now, I, who am not waiting, dread
how they will see me, the breaker
of promises,
                        I, who killed 127 ants,
which, waiting for no invitation to dine
on the scatterings about my kitchen floor,
had come in the night. And–oh my–are yet
arriving.

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