far from any yard, maybe
on a bookshelf, Barnes
& Noble—third floor
of the mall—or somehow
whipping across town
with you in your car.
There it is: stepping along
the dusty dashboard
antennae askew, six tiny feet
marking a nearly straight line
pausing once twice as if trying
to remember a missed turn
but without panic, though
it’s probably hungry
and a little pissed
and desperate for the lean
chemical trail of its colony kin
who by now are a million
ant miles away, just beginning
to notice that you-know-who
hasn’t been seen for a while.
Maybe their feelers twitch
with grief or a little envy.
Saw one today
on the basketball court
and wished I could believe
what that ant believed
with those fancy sneaks
flashing all around.
Years ago, in Philadelphia—
Sharpnack Street: row houses
block after block, paint peeling
on the porches, one faded address
after another—I was looking
for Donna’s house.
She had the biggest afro
in the city and a smile
like a lead singer
taking the mike: Donna Lee,
the girl I called a “tackhead”
back in 7th grade because
no one had told me
what puberty could do.
I must’ve had the street wrong
and soon found myself deep
in the turf held by The Clang,
tough guys mostly my age
and always ready to move
on a stranger, and I knew
those dudes didn’t know me.
But I just kept walking
while the dark flickered
with the streetlights
starting to buzz and the city
like a black leather jacket.
I was sixteen, away
from home with nobody
bossing me around, lost
in a night that might have
gone on forever.
I felt that way again today
wandering a neighborhood
that should’ve been familiar
but nothing is anymore:
not these pocked streets
and untrimmed hedges
not my own busy head
tuning up every fear—
not even my country
though I was born here
almost 70 years ago, but what
should I do? What can anybody
actually do but keep on walking.