An ant is strategically spreading her pheromone all alone on the streets.

Looking to lure, hoping to spur,
a connection of sorts,
but instead she contorts the only thing going for her;a thorax that boasts.
And the picnic that once was so full of great taste has now been rained out
leaving
her face distorted and twisted,
open hand, wristed
Nothing is left for the six legged slut.
Searching for reason amongst the treason of those she betrayed by creating the lag in a long rope of connections that have long since been
broke
with no money and far from a hill or the thrill of a hay roll with tariffs and bill,

The ant goes marching on our sad empty streets.