Beetles.(Poem)

 
Beetles 
 
   After I died the cockroaches came calling. 
   With wreaths of black chrysanthemums they'd gifted, 
   Gravid, graveolent, their odour drifted 
   From bush to mourning bush, it was appalling. 
   A restless black suburban rain was falling. 
   The bugs were black as binbags as they shifted 
   From leg to leg to leg. "We all loved Jack," 
   They told my mother. "And we want him back." 
 
   Like Patience on a whatsisname my sainted 
   Parent stood wrapped in thought. She'd loved me dearly, 
   But she wasn't into insects, wasn't really. 
   Though she knew they weren't as black as they were painted 
   And had done her level best to get acquainted 
   With some civilised invertebrates, she clearly 
   Was not--how shall I say?--one of the boys 
   And rarely sought their company by choice, 
 
   Like Patience, therefore, silent, taking stock. 
   I suppose nonplussed best covered her demeanour, 
   That and admirable calm. I wish I'd seen her; 
   After all, beetles (dung) and roaches (cock) 
   Do still retain an undoubted power to ...