Steven Bruce | Author & Poet

A Cockroach Walks into a Bar

A cockroach walks into a bar
lit by a chandelier of dog teeth.
The bartender,
a fat roach with one eye,
pulls him a pint.

On the television,
a man in a suit signs a paper
that means bombs for children.

The roaches watch in silence.

Jesus, one mutters,
how do they always find
new ways to destroy themselves?

The roach sips his beer
from a rusted thimble,
thinking of the time
he saw a man
kick a dog
for begging.

Call us vermin, the bartender says,
but we don’t poison the rivers.
We don’t bury children in rubble.

The bartender changes channels,
wipes his mandibles,
says, Soon,
they’ll wipe themselves out.

And when the last man dies
with a flag in his mouth
and a banknote in each fist,
we’ll crawl out into the silence
and have our day.

Published in Proletarian Poetry · Featured in Brute