even the dead cockroach
on the bottom shelf of my bookcase
is jealous, flooded with thoughts
of other cockroaches that get to feel the power
of life and possibility as they stand tall (and naked) before his old lady
both of them covered in sweat

now that he is dead, she is sure to go
into the moist cream filling of the apartment floor
where handsome strangers make promises
and do things to her that the dead cannot

night after night
she will slip out of each exchange unmarked
unharmed by the shattering of implied intentions
with a slight limp in a few of her back legs
and an ocean of wrinkles in the sluttiest outfit she owns
the one my dead comrade never let her wear out alone