Hiding

I was young when I would hide myself,
sitting against the cold frictionless,
white wall of the washing machine.
I would cradle my legs and nestle
my chin on my knees, eyes keeping vigil
on red ant processions,
red streaks near the side door
to the laundry room
hunting for food or on the move,
but always in collective lines.
When the red dot ants stopped beguiling my eyes,
I would pick at the curled lips of pealing linoleum tiles
that stayed mild in the summer.
I wasn't hot went I hid myself when I was young,
Even though that suffocating Georgia humidity
Laughed at anyone who happened outside.
And outside was so close with the side door,
True escape if I could ever muster the need,
Hiding with the washing machine beside me.