A poem by Raymond Souster
I was reading on the first
28 plus day of May
on the patio
savouring the axe fall
on rocks in stanza 3
when a small ant arrived
on p. 66.
I flicked him
as I had done others
of his ilk toward
the edge but
he smeared brownly
like an Andrew Wyeth
brushstroke
forever spoiling
my book and the purity
of my read.
I tried the white eraser
of hope on the stain
but he was still there
now a perpetual part of
“The World Stopped”.
Souster himself had the last word–
“The world resumed again”
though I have me dou’ts.