The Roach and the Butterfly

In the kitchen’s fluorescent hum,

where grease stains mutter last night’s haste,

the cockroach creeps, a tiny heretic,

through toast crumbs, a coffee’s spilled halo.

He’s a scuttling hex, they hiss—

plague in miniature, filth baked in,

his sheen a sin that begs the boot,

a rustle that whispers “grind me down”.

Then flutters the butterfly,

a pastel confection,

wings like sugar-dusted glaze,

alighting on the counter—

a guest too frail to flick away.

She’s renewal, a garnish of grace,

we’d sooner scorch the earth

than mar her powdered glow.

Humanity, you pious chef,

ladling virtue with a dented spoon,

you crush the roach and call it clean,

plate the butterfly and call it holy.

Good and evil? A jest—

just a pageant of husks in your skull,

ugly the grime, pretty the gleam,

yet the pot simmers still, unjudged by its cooks.

The roach, your mute sous-chef,

hauls the scraps you won’t name—

the drip beneath the fridge,

the rot you season out.

The butterfly’s your garnish,

a sugared veil on the plate,

so you don’t taste

the roach in your broth.

I’ve swept these floors too long,

crushed husks beneath my heel,

spared the wings that dusted past—

and still, the sink’s stained black,

no broom can scour the shadows we cast.

So toast the cockroach,

your kitchen’s quiet confessor,

scraping crumbs from the cracks—

while the butterfly wilts on your sill,

and the stove hums cold.

FSF