Cockroach Heaven

Rumpled T-shirts and corduroy pants
form a moat around my bed.
A basic printer, a prehistoric amp,
wedge into the mess and jut out like monoliths.
A thin layer of dust coats all,
everything,
including the sails of the model
Nina, Pinta, or Santa Maria
from which the cockroach captain looks out.
Crawling up the masts, seeing nothing,
leading a skeleton voyage
through icy waters
and breath-fogged vision.
This is cockroach heaven,
the baby universe
of my squalor.