Almost not there,
in the hair on my leg,
an ant traverses.
With his machete mandibles,
he ambles through
the blondy brush and vines,
canting his frantic antennae
for signs of the lost column.
Pausing only for a sip of sweat
at some partially filled pore,
he wipes his forehead with a leg
and rests upon a pimple
in a clearing near my knee.
From there surveys the world
as far as he can see;
reflects upon the marvels of creation,
the freedom of his nation,
transubstantiation.
Then, more mundanely,
checks his gear
before deciding on a path that’s near
(the years of trooper-training
obviously well engrained).
He soldierly inspects his weapon,
testing bayonet for rapier point.
Finds the thing still keen
though somewhat stained;
wipes it clean till not a spot remains.
Then, as if to finish off this satin shine,
raises up his ass and puts
his full untiring weight behind
the slender needled mass,
driving downward into oil
deep within the sebum soil;
And that is why I wrote
“A Eulogy.”
Jesse Doiron