No evidence that
cockroaches tell time
by the large plain face
of the clock we bought
from Kmart
to replace the clock that fell
and smashed
my cobalt teacups.
At the same hour every night
they make the long journey
from the immovable dresser
to the bookshelves.
We say they ‘creep’, they ‘scuttle’
why not say they run, as gazelles do
or a hare, in the low light
they’ve been waiting for.
Are these lonely indoor
cockroaches the same
as those living high-density
in the compost heap?
The sound they make
in a layer of dry leaves
is something Steve Reich
might hear in a dream.
It’s a long time since
I’ve reached for a shoe
to bring down CRUNCH!
on a running cockroach.
Not because I’ve reconsidered
the value of cockroach life.
I’m lazy. Or, more kindly
I accept these cockroaches
are with us. Can be reduced
but not annihilated.
They mate, lay their precious
eggs, nymphs hatch, a lifecycle
studied by pest controllers.
No evidence that cockroaches
understand the lifecycle of my species.
Unimpressed by our big brains
they require only that we drop crumbs
slough skin, use soap, paper, glue
in a warm paradise of dark corners.
Conquered, I’ll call myself a natural
philosopher. Grow a beard, observe
the nocturnal sprint dispassionately
one opposable thumb on the tv remote
the worn-out couch my hide.
