There are 20 quadrillion
ants upon the Earth,
at least that’s what the experts
gauge, and there’s two-and-a-half
million for every human.
I don’t find that comforting,
that there’s fifteen fucking zeroes
after twenty,
that I’m somehow
responsible
for 2,500,000 ants,
feel unsure of what to do
with that amount,
and if my neighbour were to die,
do I care for twice as much?
Ants can look after themselves,
you remind me, speaking of their
diligence, the way they stick together,
that their antennae relay messages
much faster than our texts,
adding they could conquer us
anytime, if they really wanted to,
from their colonies around the house,
that they’re content
to simply go about their business,
hard-working communists
that they are.
I feel the need to get away,
where I’d forget about the ants,
do some tourist kind of things,
take in New York City in the fall,
breathe the crisp of Brooklyn air,
find all of the varied spots
where Seinfeld had been set.
Seated behind your laptop,
you declare there’s over
two million rats in NYC,
that it’s not as bad as it sounds,
say there’s four of us
for every one of them,
that we could saunter
through Central Park,
extol the spectrum
of the leaves,
catch some vintage jazz
in Greenwich Village,
while we wonder if these
vermin know the ratio,
that it actually falls
within our favour,
every time they migrate from
the sewers, join us on the subway,
risk our baited traps,
if that bite of smelly pizza’s
really worth it,
for them, for us,
and the anxious Italian baker,
who never checks what’s crawling
around his feet.
Andreas Gripp
April 10, 2023
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