The polar white truck of
the Triple-A Exterminating Company
pulled up this morning to fumigate
the house, and in the evening
I find a huge red-brown cockroach
I think is dead lying in the shower.
But when I pick him up
carefully in a piece of toilet paper,
he shivers faintly, antennae moving so slightly
I think for a moment it is the wind
of my breath.
But it isn't, and I recall
once in another town climbing out
of a dentist's chair, still under gas,
and determined to learn German
so I could read Kafka in the original.