You're an oval-shaped
creature sloping upward
my windowsill, with
a brownish, oily
body and a small head,
rushing to get in.
I open the window,
let you in
to seek for a corner, now,
sliding on the wooden floor.
Antennae
negotiating, feet
scaling, mind
accustomed to being
on the run.
On any other day,
I could squish your exoskeleton,
or spray poison until
you flip over.
Well, if you had wings, I'd probably
smile and let you land
on my hands.
If you had blue eyes, fur, pink
paws, I'd pet you,
give you a name, feed
you, wash you, grieve when
you're gone.
But you're actually
just an oval-shaped,
flat-bodied, insipid creature,
so I have the heart
to squish you hard until
you spurt out life.
