–MO: Writings From The River, Volume 1 Issue I
In India they are the size of toads.
We marched into a Mumbai motel
And followed an uneven rug to our room
Where we saw one scamper across the floor.
While we dined in elegance, cracks in the walls
Of our motel room were sprayed with poison
As fumes kept us from our room for hours.
Once our noses allowed us in, our heads fell
Into the pillows and we floated into a deep sleep.
Morning, my eyelids rose to meet two antennae
Anchored two inches from my nose. On each bed
A handful of them regained their strength
While the floor slowly moved. I screamed
And my fellow travelers were startled awake.
Like solders in a mine field we paraded across the floor.
The manager ran to see, and having seen, shouted orders.
Later that day we didn’t need to worry.
Every last one had been beaten to death
By men with small handmade brooms.
It took us some time to notice close to our doorway
The heavy rug in the hallway grew one more hump.
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