Roaches

The roaches are on the 2nd floor.

It must be freezing down there,

I see Them as I pass by on the stairs,

always wearing at least three layers,

dirty jackets, frayed blankets, something

underneath, but I sure don't want to see it.

One can always know by looking at Them faces,

something that must be inherently wrong inside

expressed on the surface,

missing teeth, scarred cheeks, that odd yellow tint to the

skin like a book left on the shelf for too many years

without being read.

I must be on my way, can't afford to help,

Besides, Them stares creep me out.

The roaches are on the 8th floor.

It’s where I live, but not for long.

I am not like Those here, living on the block of

just-barely-getting-by.

Where the wrinkles grow deeper with every night

spent looking desperately at credit-card statements,

distracted by the finger-paintings taped to the

fridge of a small house under a green sun.

No, I am meant for better things.

I'm college educated, sophisticated, downright

intoxicated by the voices that will tell

how one can be better than Those.

The Roaches are on the 16th floor.

Been here all along,

turns out they were upwardly mobile,

just like me,

and there is nowhere higher I can go,

can't avoid the Roaches anymore.

In this dim light, the walls themselves flex in and out like

muscles, or maybe lungs.

I can feel the thump of thousands of little bodies

as they scurry toward some suspicious end.

I fear the Roaches are planning something.

But I pass by to the window untouched and see

below Them and Those have gathered, pointing and

laughing at me because I didn't know,

this building was constructed on the back of a roach.

SM Oct 2009