Armed with the plastic
shovel from my son's bedroom,
I scoop sugar-ants
out of the pantry,
away from the coffee can,
off of the counter.
Shovel full, I march
toward the bathroom to drown them
and pretend they're gone.
I drink uneasy
cups of morning coffee fuel,
refusing to watch
any lingering
soldiers swim down my gullet
and die inside me.
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