Tres cucarachas, sunk about thorax
deep in the luke-warm fat. Their
antennas waved about, as if they were
having a deep conversation about life.
The smallest one, which I named Tony,
exited briefly and I watched him sip
a little pool of egg white that had
been neglected to be wiped up.
Tres borachos now, since Tony brought
back a bit of the booze to his compadres.
The bigger one drank a bit too…