Years later, I read Meja Mwangi's The Cockroach Dance.
He could've been talking about my old apartment in Pasadena,
the way he homed in on the roaches and defective plumbing.

I pictured Dusman and Toto's bedroom
where our living room used to be.

In my mind's eye, the worn out meter-reader Dusman
slept on the couch that had no springs in the middle,
the one where your spine connected with the floor
if you sat in the wrong place.

His handsome young roommate
Toto slept on the ugly red sofa
that was so long that Roommate had a hard time maneuvering it
up the front steps after he rescued it from the trash.

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