Ode to a Pizza Hut Roach

Determined little one her species existence has seen many others come and go: Her ancestors picked their bones Clean. We have tried to destroy her family, even her. The Orkin man comes every two weeks, feigning systematic, scientific methods, spraying his poison behind the cabinet of paper towels, under the salad bar, over the dishwasher, between the booths. Her frantic beating of water is doing little to keep her head above the hurricane of the sink. Bits of floating week-old mushrooms provide unreliable support. She reaches for them like a child clinging to a slippery beach ball in the deep end. The oily, orange, French-dressing water has cruelly slicked back one of her antennae. The only lives worth saving are inoccent, uncorrupted lives: Babies, animals...roaches. I aim the tip of the crunchy dishtowel in front of her squirming legs. She attaches herself to the dirty rag immediately. I lift her out of the slimy, stinking water. Her resilience astounds me, her soaking body gains strength and speed as she dries from the climb up the towel toward...MY HAND! I reflexively swat her down. She lands on the floor next to a stale crouton. Startled but strong, she escapes under the counter: a counter that the Orkin man hasn't sprayed, and which is covered with pizza crumbs and crusty sausage bits. She is probably going to make babies, I think, smiling, Noble.