Cockroach

At night when I catch them in the kitchen 

Or on the floor of my room, I burn their 

Brown little bodies to a crisp.  At night 

When I find a straggler or two, caught them 

In the midst of scavenging, they stand quite 

Still, hope I overlook, mistake them for 

Something else.  But I know their habits, just 

As they know mine.  At night, as I lie in 

Bed, easing into sleep, sometimes I hear 

Their patter across my pillowcase, or 

Think I do.  It happens often enough 

I know it's true.  So at night I exact 

A fee, a toll, for their trespass on my 

Neck or arms, and fry their tiny bodies.

There is only a moment of pain, I

Like to believe, and that’s enough for me.

Most the time.  When it’s not, I put them in 

A jar with lid screwed tight, hold them over 

The coils burning brightly on my stove, watch

Them scramble to the jar’s cool end and then 

I turn it round, again, until I tire 

Of the game, drop them quick, a burst, flame and

Smoke, where they last but a second, or so.