Hormiguero
I'm done combing the Westside for ants
the dilapidated houses
refuse to suffer
old man Centeno's soul
cast aside like used gum
that won't stick to shoes
not even the ghost of ant mounds
spiral against dogs
who would know better
I'm done combing the Westside
for the sighs of ants
their little brown shoulders
I used to lean on
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