My own are scattershot
and the neighbors’ flicker
and stutter like the lives
of diners peering at menus
within little squares of light
on a passing train. How can I
help picturing myself up above
in Seat 17A looking out
at clouds, myself the size
of a baby’s thumbnail
on that passenger jet
still lifting on its way
to Kansas City. Right now
I see Steve’s living room lights
at 6 a.m. on Sunday, so I wonder
if he, the neighbor who wears
earphones when he mows,
ever gets a day off, and if he is
still Steve, the one I knew
long ago, or someone new?
And do any of them notice
my empty driveway
every Monday night, and do any
of our patterns matter?
In a Texas museum we sat
and watched an filmmaker’s
vision of city highrises
flickering off and on as days
and nights passed in a hurry.
And now I remember how important
the mission of that one ant
my young son and I watched,
its mandibles clamped tight
with the sail of a green blade
of grass, and how he crossed
and re-crossed the dirt path,
wandered in circles
through forests of dry weeds,
and though we long-watched,
he never found (or did he ever?)
his way home with his treasure.
About Carol Hamilton
