In Technicolor

When the cockroaches Crash The “delicious calm” of my privacy The little butterflies of my “poetic sensibility” Fly out, as it were, On the beam of light Coming in through the cracks Of the room’s doors and windows To the far reaches Of an uncharted black hole. And All along the night Like a child who knows It will never again Find that peculiar peddler of oranges, I sit aghast, Ashamed of the sheet of paper Gone pale in the boredom of waiting, Calling the cockroaches All sorts of names Legitimate and illegitimate. I then dart into a safe corner Pretending I never saw the sight of cockroaches. And thinking of the colorful wings Of my “poem-butterflies” Flying far away Over open plains.