Playing God

An ant ambles across the terrain 
of the black cotton bedsheet 
you gave me because I needed 
something to absolve me from the excess light.

A worker ant, three years old and hence 
will die today or tomorrow, ponders 
about the night’s crimps in the sheet. 
Will it meet its fated end on the other side?

Is it just another of the endless games 
the cotton valley plays? My finger can
make the decision for the ant. 

To whom shall I beg pardon? 
This morning living looks better, almost 
a form of mercy. I can spare some
biscuit’s crumbs for the creature and
enter in the bathroom thinking about 
more pressing matters of this life.

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