One roach means a hundred more hidden,
an omen, like that slightest grin on my evil neighbor's face.
More horrors are yet to come, but I've never felt so alert,
aware that rot runs rampant behind these walls.
I hear them softly crawling. If I doze I'll be overwhelmed.
I use roach traps of course, dozens
and poison nuggets for the scout to take back.
Chemical warfare also, the spray can casts its mist across the floor.
A scorched earth policy on linoleum.
Cleanse my piece of the world with a new broom;
if decay is swept away evil will surely starve.
Now patrol, patrol. Afternoon, evening, midnight, zero hundred hours.
Still awake with hammer in hand, I hear them loudly now.
I flip on the light and behold that the wall is very busy with them.
I pound, pound, pound, pound, and soon the wall pounds back.
Crazy, I'm called crazy from behind the wall.
That smirking neighbor, these are his minions.
I should be pounding him. Sirens, now the doorbell rings.
I won't answer. More pounding, walls, door. My door breaks.
They come.

With medication I have been permitted to return. Months have passed.
On the kitchen wall one lone roach greets me.
He must have been very patient.
Sadly I must disappoint him,
for when once I crusaded now I barely shrug.
Zealots are crazy; I must return to the mundane.
I prepare to go to my new job. First the necessary rituals:
shower, shave, brush, dress, and out the front door.
I hear a metallic click. My neighbor patrols his peephole.
Now I'm his obsession. He's scared of me.
That gives me power. I'm cured.
As for my neighbor, now it's his hour
to pound himself mindless
at little annoyances crawling
behind, on, and even through
our concrete world of walls.

©Richard Fein