The Last Tardy
By: Rebecca Costello

This morning, on the sidewalk,
She steps on the ants, a smear of dirt.
 
Her entire figure holds the slump
Of whatever bends her face toward the ground…
 
Cloudy, with a 60% chance of precipitation,
What happened? One ant, two, three, are
 
Alone with the leaves –
Avoided. Another and another;
 
“Each colony of ants has its own distinct smell.
In this way, intruders can be recognized immediately.”
 
Stepping on the cracks breaks your mother’s back.
Remember the others who fell,
 
Unbalanced, then gone within moments –
The spider, pinned to a foam board;
 
The butterfly, prismatic, thin,
Glued to a laboratory notebook.
 
Who would look at the sky,
The unreached and unfamiliar,
 
When instead, by walking along, the bizarre
Of the unseen might stay away at least until dusk.
 
Down the street, she looks at each crack as they pass.
My dear, why did you go out today?
 
The day is half over, a smudge on the year.
The clouds and the leaves trade stares in the sun.