Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

At twenty-something (in human years), I
Can no longer eat five thousand ants
Without a commensurate amount a time,
Jogging in anteater sweat pants.

“Oh don’t worry,” they say, “You’ll find you are
Hugely passionate for it one day!
It releases endorphins that are at least on par
With a honeypot soufflé.”

“It recharges your battery, removes all your fears,
Makes the girl anteaters’ hearts pang!
Adds years to your life,” Yeah. Human years.
So I have to multiply that by twenty-six and divide by eighty. Dang.