Metal clangs and shriek­ing reverberate

down the hallway before we’ve even hit 8am.

My stu­dents found a dainty line of ants

cas­cad­ing down their lockers

is all

prob­a­bly drawn to a lunch­box left behind

over the warm spring weekend

left­overs growing spongy and ripe with condensation.

The school cus­to­di­an warns us not to stomp

or crush them with a backpack.

Pain fires a pheromon­al signal to the colony

to rush to the rescue, to carry their wounded home,

a phantom limb syn­drome of sorts.

I think we might be better off if

we, too, were hard­wired for empathy,

if the mere fra­grance of our hurt

shot out shat­ter­ing cries for help.

The kids stare at the linoleum floor,

expel seventh grade sighs.

An aimless sneaker

kicks the locker door closed

and they file off to class

already back to their rowdy taunting.