The beginning of the end of the world
maybe the morning the roaches
walked into the kitchen
bold with their bad selves
marching up out of the drains
not like soldiers        like priests
grim and patient in the sink
and when we ran the water
trying to drown them as if they were
soldiers        they seemed to bow their
sad heads        for us not at us
and march single file away

maybe then        the morning
we rose from our beds as always
listening for the bang at the end
of the world        maybe then
when we heard only the tiny tapping
and saw them dark and prayerful
in the kitchen        maybe then
when we watched them turn from us
faithless at last
and walk in a long line away