They don't pursue the food or sugar.
Mostly they appear by night
to scurry on a reach of lino
or scuttle up the walls of cupboards.
He wipes them out, quite literally,
with a dishcloth down the sink.
How is it they don't get the news?
They swarm now in his brain as well,
invisible proliferations.
At first, there was a flick of guilt.
What's the secret of their breeding?
Why is it they keep coming back?
A few perhaps could be ignored
but, plainly, it's too late for that.
So, yes, he understands the slogans.
Hard horizons. Hopeful boats.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem