The scavenger ants trek through the forest,
each day an exact slice of the compass.
They eat everything and they spare nothing
in that sector. They are out there,
I hear them with their black flags.
There are the slaves and there are the slavemakers,
toughs who spray propoganda substance
turning their victims onto each other,
and they make off with the eggs. These are the slaves.
They do all the work around here.
That’s how it is in the ant universe.
Nothing can change it. But how would you like
to be pumped into a bag of glucose and water
hung from the ceiling against lean times?
Upside down. That’s some career plan.
As for the bear grubbing in the bleak winter
of the bears, he’s not interested in this
but in the rare sharp sweetness on his tongue.
He blinks. If I were you the bear in me says
I’d stick to sweet things, especially honey.