Not Exactly Beautiful in the Lamp Lit Night: a roach poem, After Sawako's "Transclucent Skin" by A D

This one, male and alone. He is afraid of sound, hiding
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.