Dead Ants in the Basement

Sweep. Sweep up all those ants.
One zillion specks strong.
Deader than a door nail
Daddy wants them all swept and gone.

Down. Down into the basement
On daddy's firm orders.
No quibbling about it
Cause daddy never gives us quarter.

Sweep! Sweep! I grab the broom
While Russ grabs the pan.
Daddy grabs the trash bag
While mama grabs Mellisa's little hand.

Down! Down! Our feet step in sync.
First daddy.
Then mama.
Then sis.
Then brother.
Then I.
The irony not lost on me
That we march down the steps like ants in a line.

Tired Mud

Wetlands. Half dried from a
Modest winter waiting for springs
Promise of rain yet unfulfilled.

A rise of earth between
Two shallows offer clues
Of last years activities.
Tire tracks. Deep. Rutted.

Doze off in a slow and sleepy
Missouri curve.

Discontinuous

It's been six years now
since the divorce,
the children under your wing
like two eggs in a nest
(yet grounded in a tree).

My daughter.
My son.
My God! I miss them much.

Somedays so much
I find myself in full curse of the universe
or belittling my sock drawer
but only my voice comes back,
reasurringly

if not sympathetically so.