Ants have built their cities in the vacant lot
where an old motel used to be.
The tall grass shimmies like sardines.
Burned and broken bricks lie
amid shards of glass and refrain from discussion
while household objects, charred and familiar,
dispassionately observe passing cars.
Like discarded toys, they look where they must.
A shadeless lamp with a futile wire,
a folding chair and a dial-less rotary phone,
receiver unhooked, angled up—
all of these survived the fire.
Most evenings there is static, as of snow,
from carmine and gold brindled clouds
emboldened as rams before clashing horns—
they ascend in spare arpeggios
and green the sea with shadows—
but tonight power lines pulse with gossip
while the city fence whistles the wind through
missing teeth, and the tall grass bends like truth
to a lie that smells of seaweed-tarnished sand.
One by one, the ants return to their homes.
Listen: the sound of the telephone, calling,
though it's not sure who, or why.