If it has been said that we look like ants—
after a long winter, we now look like bees.
The way we bob and sway between potholes
our vehicles doing a choreographed dodging dance.
And the potholes, God bless them,
patient panhandlers with their hats flipped upside down, take a bow—
will you toss in a quarter?
They wait for alms,
graciously offering to swallow my tire.
