Poem for the Termites in the Wall

It must be hard being so industrious
So small and oh so hungry

I've heard you can tear down a house in as little as 3 years
What a glorious empire that must be
Conquering one beam, one room, at a time,
or perhaps the whole house at once,
eating away at it from the bones out
until a gust of wind can bring the whole thing down.

Does a home whistle in the wind?
Each termite hole a different note that sings.
What song does the symphony play on the last day?
Is it of mourning?
Or but another marching song for the endless war on property
On home
On safety

How do you pick your next target?
Do you look for the lingering rot of a neglected home?
Or the warm dry wood of a well loved one?
Does it matter at all?
Perhaps there is no one to blame.

Nature eats its own tail.
Or I guess the termite eats it's own home
and someone else's home
But that's beside the point

What is it like to be so small yet wreak such destruction?
Do you even know what you are capable of?

More importantly: Do you care?

I mean do they care when they wipe out your colonies?
Do they not celebrate your destruction with their circus tent gas chambers?

Why should you care?
You are just another way the universe has realized itself,
and it picks no favorites.
Your house in the crawl space or my childhood bedroom
with the Winnie the Pooh mural my dad painted,

It doesn't matter who won in the end.