doing the conga

she asks you to go
dancing,
which makes
you groan and bend
over as
if you suddenly
had a stomach
virus brought on
by a piece of bad
fish.
dancing, you
mumble, as you
try to catch your
breath. why?
you say. what for?
you are staring,
bent over, gazing
at the sidewalk,
at a line
of black ants
seemingly
doing the conga,
carrying
bread crumbs
over their heads
between your
two left feet.