Giants

Somewhere

up there,

above the air:

The giants romp.

In boots they stomp.

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!

All the people—girls and boys—

we make a distant, tiny noise.

To giants, we’re dust—we’re toys.

We’re as small, to them, as bugs—

as worms, as mice or lice or slugs.

As small as ants—as tacks—

as—uh-oh—snacks.