Torn Along the Dotted Line

 Torn Along the Dotted Line

 

Two ants and they’re both running,

fit to burst, puffing like cigarettes,

ash and lime, down to the last drag

with a zig and a zag and a gasp

she grasps at some light touchpaper

don’t see me now, I’ll see you later

because it says: ‘tear along the dotted line’

towards a not-too-distant finish flag.

 

Not in blue cross, this one’s black,

dashing towards ashes and sacks,

remain a good joke that had its day,

now at a 50 years distance away,

how memories needle, stick with pins,

mouths won’t end what tongues begin,

well-thumbed photos, syrupy grins

fall like tears to smear watercolours.

 

Pictures of grief, they forever live

and it is not he that must forgive

stolen futures, they’ve raced by now,

it’s better preventing cures somehow

and forget an unsweepable debt,

than come to her bedside and fret

over two ants, running out of time

forever torn along the dotted line.