[Spoken]
Dimly visible through the outer walls of the dust-colored ootheca
Twenty fetal co*kroaches begin to move
Blattarian eyes, mouthparts, antennae, and legs
They have pushed themselves
In the narrow seam of the egg capsule
Gulping air, and, yes, they inflate
Nearly doubling their size
Expanding until they spill out
They were abandoned
By their mother
On some dark edge
Of the universe
In the crevice
Between
Floorboards
And a leaky pipe
With spasmodic twists and turns
They must tear themselves free
From thin, membranous pellicles
The new millennium begins
And within the first minute
Of the official clock on 3rd Street,
The co*kroaches emerge
Like a gang of young teens
Having crawled out of their bedroom windows
And meet in the park
And they will
Molt
Again
And again
Bloating their bodies
To slip out
And eat
Replicas
Of their former selves
Until
They have wings
co*kroaches have been doing this
Millions of years before the age of dinosaurs
And little has changed
They are
Creatures
With a brain
That travels
From one end
Of their bodies
To the other
They know survival
The co*kroaches do not care
About the city's 3rd street clock
They do not keep count of hours or days
They do not know who was born first
They have no use for calendars
Unless there is nothing left to eat
They know survival
They know survival
They know
They know survival
Unless there is nothing left to eat
co*kroaches have been doing this for millions of years