The True Anti

by Marcus Slease

I’m anti-ant so I place ant traps in strategic places.
So many red armies, so little time.

I play poker with my juiced-up friends.
I feel Ireland as uncle Charlie whose heart
was a bicycle he pedaled morning, noon, and night.

Uncle Charlie, your winks deserve credit.
Your little ponds deserve credit.
The holes in your mind deserve credit.
You taught me how ducks matter.
Quack this, quack that, then a poke
from the ice cream man for fifty pence.

The Elders call those who turn away anti.
They say there are holes in your head that need re-drilling.
Hello, Mr. Anti. Poor Mr. Anti isn’t feeling well today.

Coffee matters.
Really matters. I swim in it.

At bedtime little lifeboats appear
but when I step into them the air wheezes out.

Marcus Slease was born and raised in Portadown, N. Ireland. Currently, he teaches Existentialism to freshmen at UNC Greensboro. Recent poetry has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Conduit, Columbia Poetry Review, Diagram, Gut Cult, Typo, Milk, Shampoo, Spork, and Octopus.