there were centipedes inside my wall, this morning,
in sleek dank holes you would swear aren’t there.
they’ve been around here since before me, i think;
and before this wall stood here.
their colonies predate my housing society,
with its lockdown rules that are strictly enforced.
prohibited for everyone, but, for the entry
of those who just can’t be disposed.
they walk in a hundred strides, unmasked,
compelled to stick to margins and corners.
they pick up the crumbs left behind by us,
and recede like dutiful performers.
we ‘own’ property that wasn’t property.
by possessing we devalue possession.
today it might be mine to keep,
but, in time, am i even my own?
the centipedes are out of sight until
they die by the dozen in the flood of my shower.
in the cleansing of my body’s filth,
they are destined to be run over.
i am stuck at home for most of the day,
and venture out for a nightly roam.
but they walk through sunshine and shade
their hole in the wall no longer ‘home’.
i see them walking, everywhere,
when all my chores are done.
unthinking and in a fit of rage,
i spray them with some venom.
they writhe, collapse, turn over and die
they all fall like nine pins.
victims of my entitled guilt
and killed by my indifference.
next day, i sigh at the sorry sight
when more centipedes appear on cue,
they're brought to life by the morning paper,
and die by primetime news.
