Serial killer

I squashed a cockroach the other day.
A big, Fat, Cockroach.

It was trying to get away and,
I squashed it.

Not that I had anything against that,
Particular cockroach but,

I was bare-foot.

I had tea,
And biscuits,

And was bare-foot when he made his dash across the corridor.

It took some time to calm down, to
Fetch another tray.

When I returned,
The cockroach had moved.

A thick, white streak,
Of substantial viscosity,

Ran right across the floor and,
Straight under my door.

Her gartered leg was up on the table.

She removed a delicate silver pistol and,
With his back turned,

Fired a single shot.

I used a shoe this time,
Like a maniac,

And then,

Framed by a single,
Swinging light-bulb,

Waited for the detective.

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on July 1, 2015 at 00:23  Leave a Comment  
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