They were, so to speak, well-run.
Workers getting the job done.
All as it should be
in a Colony of Ants.

Then one day the scouts returned
with news to make even a peacenik
burn. They’d found a big picnic
ripe for plunder.

Cries of “Eat! Eat!” swept the street.
Liberals began the Bounce Around.
Conservatives went into heat.
The leaders feared a meltdown.

Inspectors, they decreed, would be sent
to check the site. For a fortnight.
Calm prevailed. Ant
intelligence never failed.

Trudge, trudge, squeak, the inspectors
marched a week. Then in morning dawn,
the eighth day, they came
upon… …holy kokomo…!

Ant El Dorado! They’d never seen
such food! And such variety! The
table was huge! They ate
until they couldn’t move

And then became concerned. This
utopia (when learned) might screw
the Colony anew:
a hazard to mental health—

Surplus wealth. They retired to
ponder this—how to deal with
transcendental bliss.
They pondered all night;

Then one had a strange insight: Make
the table appear…without actually
being here…some kind of
guide…some…

Thunderclap. The invention of a map!
They seized the paradigm and were
pleased. They sent back a terse
message, stalling

For time: FIND ENCOURAGING. They
then faced the task of transferring
the “idea of map” into
the reality of foolscap.

Their first problems were
the invention of a written ant language,
the discovery of paper,
the production of writing utensils…

Prodigious feats. Hard to believe; yet in a
few days these humble ants achieved
what took a higher species
thousands of years to complete.

They carefully drew on a paper napkin
each food—using the “product buzz”
to show were it was. Clearly a giant leap
in ant outreach—a new day—

They carried it away, over their heads
like a carapace. —CODE RED!
MONSTER ATTACK!…no, no,
it’s the inspectors coming back.

Their jubilant welcome led directly
to the Main Event—the strange
thing they carried—its
purpose, what it meant.

“The purpose of life is food,” one
inspector began, explaining
in word-perfect-detail
what he was standing on.

Interest mounted. The napkin map
was a hit. Everyone wanted to
stand on it. Tours were conducted
well after dark,

When the leaders retired, dreaming
of feasting and plans to embark.
By morning they weren’t so sure.
No one had left the tour.

Workers still clustered at the map,
arguing the difference between a glac
and Saran wrap, the joy of the mustard,
the buoyancy of salt.

Not the food or feast, but its ideal
was their gestalt—seduced by
words, dreams of eating
keep repeating.

The leaders shouted, “Wise up! That’s
just a picture of the ketchup!”
“Baloney! Pig skins!” shouts came back
using the new homonyms.

“Map! Map! Map! Map!” What to do?
Insurrection grew. Again the leaders
summoned the inspectors
who quickly drew…

Another map (!)—four times the size
by unfolding the napkin first across
then lengthwise. Surely
this larger scale would quell
The gale. Not so. When the Colony
saw it, pandemonium peaked.
Ants moving here
there there
here there
young old thousands
stumping bumping
what’a sight!

Factions formed. Twinkie Twirlers,
Potato Chip Power Lifters, Beet Gurus,
each hawking their views
as gospel truth.

It was a non-stop holiday. (I told you
a new day was dawning); yet
strangely no menu. Groups vied for
control, but no one knew

Just what was who—not like vanquishing
the Aphid Marauders or the Red Hoard;
frenetic energy now pervaded
everything, even being bored.

The leaders were beside themselves. They
sent back to the picnic for more napkins,
which they pieced together with
glue into a map larger

Than the table itself, a giant grid
upon which the inspectors rescaled
each item—
rivaling Euclid.

Ta! Daaa! The leaders showed it around.
The result was the dreaded meltdown.
The rank and file were so awed by it…
nothing could get them off it!

Duties of food and shelter no more.
The Colony lost its work core. Living
became the map—eating, drinking,
fornicating, thinking—

They developed stories, theories of Good
and Evil, new frontiers. Prophets, popes,
rabbis, mahdis, lamas,
and evangelists appeared.

The Colony soon came apart. They
called it High Art. Tempers flared.
Living squeezed together
stripped “love thy neighbor” bare.

Politics…pushing…fighting…no relief…
patriotism…borders…bogus News Briefs…
then killing sprees. The final straw
invoked a cosmic law:

When the food supply drops, everything stops.
The ants began eating the map…gobble,
picture, munch…indigestible!
then the inevitable…
Cannibalism. A few leaders and wise ones
found this all a most sorry sight,
and with great reluctance decided
to abandon it.
Taking nothing with them
but their experience,
they journeyed silently to the picnic
table:
where they ate in peace
and made up a song
about just
what ’n hell had happened.