That Poem About An Ant

Sitting on a picnic table watching swings, back and forth,
cool wind burning my nose like chemicals that I use
to clean the bathroom,
a tickle on my arm draws my attention to a black ant
crawling toward my hand,
and as it makes its way toward my thumb,
I think, give this small being a chance at life,
but it punctures my skin to spite me,
so I squeeze the ant, separating its abdomen
from the rest;
then I sit there on a picnic table,
thinking about how the ant's blood
is seeping into my own.