Cockroaches by Michael Griesinger

When we squish them, redundantly,
Like squishing a piece of straw, is it envy
Of endurance? But who wants to be here
When Beetlejuice erupts or when Orion

Fires from his quivering constellation?
Any patriarch's warbling bronchi, wading
Through centuries of pneumonia, call for
A painless, punctual, end of time.

Some say unhygienic, softening
Their fibrous maws with poisons milked beneath
The fridge, to stop them from delivering
Insidious messages on too many legs.

Perhaps because they remind us of someone,
We reflexively try to smush them,
Percussing the kitchen cupboards to drown out
The reprises of undesired memories.

Through squinted eyes we see an adaptation
To a grounded fate of nimble-footed
Cunning and an insect's understanding
Of society. Their backs will never open

Like fair cousin beetle's, so they've embraced
Scampering, relegating reflex
The big bang of our imaginations
To an unimpressive lunge, face screwed up,
Cursing all that thrives and is hoarded well,
Galactic nests, and the nests in the walls.

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