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Poetry

FROM A DYING COCKROACH

Life never promised much… born

in a crack, raised in a cage of gargantuan construction,

tortured by a crew of sadistic gods

whose every casual step

could spell butchery… chased

with rolled newspaper and swatter… days

holed-up in the tv, the radio,

the washer, the dryer, the radiator, the drain;

nights hustling over floors and up walls,

flushed with total fear and garbage lust…

blind feelers wary of death from above

or oases of more trash to gorge,

but useless against the greasy poison…

now, as the petroleum distillate

clogs a last orifice,

I pray my children thrive

and spread the gospel of fear in tight places.

Willie Smith

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