No one writes poems for the ants

An antiwar poem

No one writes poems for the ants
that battle on the pavement.
Each engagement, an entire colony at stake —
but no one writes poems for the ants.

How boring it is to watch.
The ant wars are now like ours —
each day the same show.
Even advertisers know —
our wars no longer sell.
The shock has lost its awe.

How we will inspire the poets with such tiresome trauma?
Where’s our Hiroshima and Nagasaki?
Where's our Enhanced Interrogation? 
Where's our Abu Ghraib?
Where's our My Lai?

The Trojan War gave us the mighty Iliad,
1812 gave us our national anthem,
would Neruda burn as bright without the Spanish civil war?
The Teeth Mother would not be Naked At Last without Vietnam.

We've grown numb —
numb to the dead on our phones,
numb to grenades that fall from drones,
numb to news of nuclear war.
Oh, what a bore.

Meanwhile, the ants rage on —
the black swarm tearing limb from limb,
indistinguishable to the eye.

No gasps when mandibles separate thoraxes,
No tears spill for ripped antennae, 
No hearts break for a nest invaded, slaughtered, larva killed in their sleep.

We watch these epic battles from high above,
callously wondering who's winning 
and how long it will last,
while chewing a cookie that crumbles into the chaos.

And so we spray them away with carcinogenic cans
to face another day, 
another colony at bay.

Can in hand, cookie in mouth —
from here they all look the same.
Who cares to write poems for the ants?