Folding the laundry,
I’m an ant under the concrete not so old,
an overwhelming pad, and I am tiny.

Moving through oceans of dirt,
finding the solidified gray
less tainted than my shirts,

I want to chuck my socks
beyond desolation’s border,
but my robotic kinetics continue
as the carpet is entombed
by piles of chaos.

The other ants left long ago,
leaving behind a stadium,
a tribute to a gaudy culture.

I merely pray, longing for light,
waiting for Mozart to penetrate
my conglomerated malaise of
cements, stones, desolation and fears.