To a Cockroach
Granís recipe for vichyssoise
through a hair-breadth gap,
is chewed to lace.
Your burgeoning brood,
connoisseurs of spillage, spoilage,
seduced by a splash of marinara
staining the wallpaper, are stealthy,
await dark to pilfer, pillage, plunder
canisters of flour, sugar,
coffee, tea, flip-top trash bin.
But, itís stealth be damned at 3:00 am
when I stumble to the kitchen,
flip the switch.
Flaunting fecundity --
your rapacious hoard swarms
in fluid Rorschach,
vanishing as if by prestidigitation
into minute cracks,
crevices beyond my scrub and scour.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Ann Howells would be
pleased to hear them.