Ant farm

if you look out the window
from the 37th floor of any building
past the mayflies, or muckleheads
as we like to call them here in the midwest,
which is neither mid nor west
past the spider webs clinging fiercely
to the marble corners
over the neighboring rooftops
beyond the darkening clouds and morning fog
nestled among the blinking streetlights
it is all just one giant ant farm
and you will see them marching
for miles in every direction
and how defeated, my soul
to know I share the same life as an ant
moving along a predetermined path
to a predetermined place
where I will stare out a window
comparing myself to an insect
knowing at least the mayflies
or muckleheads
have a certain freedom to move on if they choose