A skillet coated with congealed grease lingered on the stove
after Tony'd made himself chorizo and eggs or fried up a pork chop.
He could cook at fourteen, but saw no particular reason
to dick around with pots and pans, forks and knives,
plates and glasses, after the fact.

Still there were no roaches at Len and Tony's house.

The floor was sticky with spilled drinks.
Some Marlboro-smoking kid would forget about gravity:
a screwdriver or a rum-and-coke would
slosh over the rim of a tumbler.
They'd all get stumbling drunk.
There was nothing to be done about that.

Maybe the roaches were afraid of getting stuck to the floor.
Maybe they were on the wagon.

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