I swallowed an ant the other day

not of my own volition, of course, 
but perched upon a butterscotch and noticed a moment too
late
when you leave a butterscotch in your pocket in the heat,
it puffs up and stretches its yellow-gold plastic place,
and when you pull it out of your pocket in a moment of sugar-craving,
you’ll find that, of its environment, it grew to contain the faster-bouncing air particles within,
adaptation to rot my teeth just a little more
I popped the butterscotch into my mouth in the middle of a socratic seminar and let it sit for a minute,
before slowly chewing, crushing it into my molars, the sugar sticking to form future cavities
but yet, a moment before, on the thin line between addiction and attention,
the ant turned its head and stared into my eyes,
a silent plea for mercy
don’t
and yet I did, because its life would not have affected mine, my craving for its temporal home
and as the remains of the insect fell down my throat, 
and as I focused back on the discussion at hand,
all I could think about was my next meal.