The Ants by Peter Gidlund (Imitation #1)

The Aunts

By Joyce Sutphen

I like it when they get together

and talk in voices that sound

like apple trees and grape vines,

and some of them wear hats

and go to Arizona in the winter,

and they all like to play cards.

They will always be the ones

who say “It is time to go now,”

even as we linger at the door,

or stand by the waiting cars, they

remember someone—an uncle we

never knew—and sigh, all

of them together, like wind

in the oak trees behind the farm

where they grew up—a place

I remember—especially

the hen house and the soft

clucking that filled the sunlit yard.

 The Ants
By Peter Gidlund

I like it when they get together
and talk with voices that sound
like jellyfish and ray guns,

and some of them carry sticks,
and go to Arizona in the wihttp://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245752nter,
and they like to build their monuments,

they seem quite nice, and I'm sure they have nice stories,
but they are always in quite a hurry, rushing about,
I wouldn't wish to ruin their schedule, with time running out.

They will always be the ones
to finish off the chicken bones,
to finish off ice cream cones,

they will motion for my pancakes been syrup'd,
while my jelly doughnut is about to erupt,
perhaps they just wanted to say "whatsup?"

I seem to recognize one of them,
and to him I say "good afternoon,"
but  it was not the one I knew.


They will never be the ones that say
"I'm thirsty," or "It's too crowded in here,"
but they never leave and they never stay,

apathetic to my various small talk,
oblivious to my inquiries,
impervious to the juiciest gossip,
about the catepillar on the branch,
about the most foolish rolly pollies,
and of course about the thirsty worms.

The ants have no leisure to mull around,
they have shipments to take care of, imports
and exports, displaying their massive strength.

I remember still, the dirt patch in back,
as I might have stepped on their mound, "Oh no!"
all I really wanted to do was say "Hello."