Ants On A Log

You and I, personifications of the saying, "if you're not with the one you love, love the game of whist." I sit here programming a collective intelligence game out of the people who think they're in charge, from the scraps and remnants of the quilt pieces you discarded when you got on that Bonanza with my best friend.

My fingers sticky with honey, molasses on my hips, one foot stuck in the butter churn. How did we end up this way?

I guess 'twas when you started that world music band. What was I thinking when I let you hand me the laundry, saying you were just taking a short walk around the neighborhood, my baseball cap hiding the view out the window that you'd taken the cannonball run on a polar orbit?

Goodbye. Another word in a long list of symbols that I tell myself everyday I'll check off in the grocery line.

In this part of the world, the word Christmas. In yours, tossing a coin to determine which hemisphere you want to go skiing, babies in mangers an idea lost in the baggage claim area.

We put the children on the trolley, bound for 12-hour shifts at the mill, cotton dust a coating we cherish, boll weevils we choose the lesser of two.

Yes, I've got the kids plowing the fields, washing the clothes and mowing the lawn, one tacking the gutter back up. Ain't a problem while I have the computer all to myself this afternoon.

We used to sing this song in duets. Now I saw the melody, the harmony played by hogs in the pigpen, their snorts in beats I've grown accustomed to smelling.

We'll fall in love again, but only with each other's money, fame and party favors. We'll keep making love to our audience, night after night, crowds with the clap. Still feels good, that mystery between us keeping us apart.

Before you take a bite, those ain't raisins, honey. I reckon they's ants. I never was any good at followin' directions. See, I can still make you laugh.