Been ‘bugging’ me all week
like a plague of consorting ants
meaningfully invading
a simile
Erasing personal space
with paraphernalia of carapace
and feelers and their damned
persistence
Can’t get away from a dogged
dipshit deterministic stink
of formic acid when patience
fails and creams a few
But I see a glint of reality in
a pale, washed-out hint of a
surrender flag waved – I think
by me
Time to exit the simile
for a metaphor where the
congestion is less tedious
and ants aren’t enemies
© 26 June 2010, I. D. Carswell
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