here I am,
sitting on a bench next to autumn
absorbing the last of the scorching sun
and watching the ants
move like clockwork
in a playground we call our own.
here they are,
mapping the maze
with staccato precision.
I am reading a poem,
like every other year.
later, I’ll get up to go home,
pass the picket fence with the tiny
porcelain cats,
walk into a heap of crunchy leaves,
and stomp out
all regrets.
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