Raindrops on the nose, a breeze rustles feline whiskers on the way down the launchpad trunk, they twitch towards the creeping clouds, who are perched beside the graying horizon, like mice beside a hole.
Last night, I was dragged away from my bachelor apartment by a colony of carpenter ants, which for some reason, had chosen to bunker down beneath my sagging corner cupboard. Perhaps, I was being recruited as part of some empowering focus group, or perhaps I was being introduced to their Queen as part of some empirical exchange program. Who knew? “Where am I going?” I asked to no one in particular. “No one left behind,” shouted one particularly melodramatic ant. As we continued to travel toward a predestined location, scores of ants began to press against my heavy chest, in search of a heartbeat. “We’re losing him,” shouted a rather clinical sounding ant. Instinctively, I gave over the beating of my heart to the capable pinchers of a thousand black little symptoms of my own ham-handed attempts at romanticized dishevelment.
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