A burgundy ant scampers along

an iron windowsill, weaves manically

around bits of old dust

as if they’re skyscrapers.

Dust picks up, sometimes,

when the train car door opens.

Makes me sneeze. 

Take a bite from my organic wrap – 

hand-packed the way my mother does it.

Her mother would wrap grape leaves

around loaves of rice in the evenings. 

Watch with approval when she finished in the evenings,

watched her pack it in a shoulderbag

and bring it to school in the mornings. I watch

the ant sprint along ice-riddled iron.

Why does it try to outrun this stretch

of New Jersey countryside?

It zigzags artfully,

and though it goes nowhere,

I trace its path; one that

spirals, like meticulous embroidery

in a canvas lunchbag.

The train tire ridges clip rails,

traction heaving us forward.

I watch this all, tomato juice dribbling over

the web between my index finger and thumb.

My tongue erect, I clean myself.

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Mira Schubert spends her time watching ants in the New Jersey countryside.