One can
talk all they want to
About the
constants of history
Thump the
podium in mighty oration
Put the
fear of God in all of us
And still
they miss the mark
It is not
the fight for freedom
The indomitable
spirit of man
Going with
the flow
Living a
purpose driven life
Or
metaphysical meditation
That is
the one thread
That one
piece that does not change
The common
link in every story
It is, in
fact, the cockroach
No,
really, it is, and I thought you should know
Thought it
might save you some worry
You see,
there is no deeper meaning
I am not
presenting some concept
A smoking
Kafkaesque gun
That must
be shot off
Later in
the story
Straight into
your subconscious
To let you
know that the roach lives
In each of
us, it is us, and we are it
That’s not
it at all, it is just a statement of fact
Everywhere
and every-when there are cockroaches
In Arizona
they were hard-cooked, dried out
Skittering
little rock beasts, impossible to smash
In the
South the pests are soaked in humidity
And smashing
obliterates them to a smear of buggy goo
My
grandparents said that in Mexico they covered the ceilings
Just outside
their hotel door, blanched white, reflecting the light
Ever since
the dinosaurs and through a nuclear war
They lurk
and multiply and continue on and on
I’ve lived
with them throughout my own life
In greater
and lesser degrees
But I’ve
always lived with them
Them,
and a can of Raid
No comments:
Post a Comment