To a Cockroach

When the power strip was disturbed

by my headless hand,

a pair of antennae emerged from a socket hole.

A head stuck out, turning quickly to all directions

Panicked by the shadowy monstrous threat

(you see, I’m putting myself in its shoes)

the cockroach jerked out of its cave—a shelter

warmed by electric current blocked by wire resistor,

and scurried off to the cold darkness under my bed.

The temperature has fallen sharply

these days, when inflation goes the other way.

The power strip and me have become the only

two sources that produce warmth

in the cubical room embedded

in an apartment-building erected

somewhere on the earth.

The green plant I bought two months ago

is dying now

irreversibly—my static companion.

I kept the power strip on

so that with the adaptors it could stay warm

like a mini-heater.

I turned off the light and went to bed.

I covered myself with a quilt.

It’s going to be a cold night.