for god knows how long
behind the dirty white bathroom sink.
There might be others there,
cavorting, mating, love making
between the sink and the wall,
but I wouldn’t know.
Nothing to eat there,
but plenty of rusty pipes leaking streams of water
to bath and drink from.
Now this one, fugitive, intrepid adventurer,
catches my eye. I scream. He runs.
Large, brown, not so tough as his stone cold rep.
My voice alone moves him in another direction.
Ageless and perhaps brave
he, a maverick among roaches,
out alone in stark bulb light
crawling now on the wall towards somebody’s bedroom.
Tuesday poem #577 : Henry Gould : AUTUMN LEAVES
5 hours ago
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