They don't pursue the food or sugar.
Mostly they appear by night
to scurry on a reach of lino
or scuttle up the walls of cupboards.

He wipes them out, quite literally,
with a dishcloth down the sink.
How is it they don't get the news?
They swarm now in his brain as well,

invisible proliferations.
At first, there was a flick of guilt.
What's the secret of their breeding?
Why is it they keep coming back?

A few perhaps could be ignored
but, plainly, it's too late for that.
So, yes, he understands the slogans.
Hard horizons. Hopeful boats.