He looks at me like I'm crazy
as I crouch over the stained
and wavy linoleum. My cup
is filled with water and vinegar
as I trace over the scent trails
the ants follow to the sweets
that I didn't remember.
I sweep the rag down the walls,
around the cabinets, methodically
herding the ants to the door
without crushing them.
He starts to laugh as I climb
onto the desk to reach
the molding around the ceiling
that they use as a highway
to do laps around the room.
He asks if maybe I'm paranoid
when I sprinkle cinnamon
across the threshold to the bathroom
and at the frame of the entryway
where they slip inside and reappear
at the top of the door.
They've outsmarted me three times,
I tell him. I won't underestimate
their cunning and courage anymore.
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