Fran Schumer
The Exterminator
You see? You have to do it a second time.
You might not get them all out at once.
I marveled at my father spraying my apartment
for roaches, a busman’s holiday, Sunday.
He came to deverminize my studio
his one day off from work, this tiny studio
inhabited by me, the daughter he sent to college
on money he earned from spraying roaches
in the Bowery, in Chinatown, in elegant French restaurants
at night so the customers wouldn’t see —.
I tried my hand at a career in which no one
made any money because if you grow up
with men like my father, you somehow feel
money will come. Mostly, it did.
And there I was after college, fighting
for the revolution while my father,
teaching me how you had to spray twice,
to get out all the roaches, do the job well
no matter how small, worked
while the moon rose and fell
just so I could have the luxury
of throwing it back in his face.
At night, after cleaning my apartment,
he fell asleep listening to Brahms. ​
A version of this poem originally appeared in Coneflower Cafe Spring 2022 (Page 9)