Did you know: articles
have confirmed that our state
is the most infested with you,
your germy offspring,
your ugly sex mates,
the rest of your creepy critter
buds that gather under the streetlight
at the first sign of humidity.
They say you love the moisture,
thrive in heat; well, you’re right at home.
But now you’re right at home
in my apartment.
(I just find it funny that you were never invited.)
You are skittering across
my living room carpet, found this audacity
to wave your antenna
and ignore my screams, fears that
you could spread your wings.
(In this region, we’re so brave until you start to fly)
I heard you will, one day, survive a nuclear
war. I don’t know, but I found out you can survive
bleach in a water pump,
sometimes a visit from pest control.
A friend told me you’ll succumb
to dish washing liquid, but I’ll
find out later. Tonight, I was generous.
You walked towards the front door and I shooed you
out with a broom. If you’re smart, you’ll remind
yourself not to return.
If not–I just purchased Raid. Or, the last
thing you will see is Morris Bart’s face
on a telephone book, as he descends from your sky.
Perhaps, before it crushes your exoskeleton,
you can memorize his phone number, just
in case he starts taking a personal
injury case from non human species.
So remember, it’s:
Five two five, eight thous–
Note: Because sometimes, poetry doesn’t have to take itself seriously. I just like to make my husband laugh with this