Bowl of Ants
We had no cereal, the cupboards—bare,
So the neighbor gave us some to share,
But the box was old, its sweetness stale,
And hidden inside it, an antistic trail.
Mother smiled as she poured the milk,
A precious stream, like liquid silk.
I clutched my spoon with hungry might,
Ready to feast on this rare delight.
But up they crawled, from the milky sea,
Tiny invaders, I didn’t foresee.
I wept, disgusted, my mother, ashamed of my cry,
with stern resolve, she picked at the bowl—awry.
“Be grateful,” she whispered, her voice so tight,
For in our world, wrong is often right.
She swept away the ants with hands so thin,
And told me to eat, my tears tucked in.
I choked on shame, as ants returned,
A bitter lesson, harshly learned.
For when you’re poor, you swallow down,
The ants, the pride, and hide your frown.
WoPoLi 
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