There are ants in the kitchen–
zipping around the coffee maker,
sliding down the bowl that holds the house keys,
on the edge of the kitchen table.

They got into the butter dish,
the can of cat food, left unfinished
by a fussy, old feline.

Ants on the stovetop,
the dish drainer.
They’re just little things.

I don’t care, but     still,
I swat they with a tea towel,
smash them with an elbow,
swipe’em with the purple sponge.

          Across the countertop ,
                                                     the conga line continues.
I know I’m not the boss of everything–

neither are you.