In Technicolor




When the cockroaches


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.


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.