Poem for the posthuman commensals

the fields lie all fallow

the harvest is done

the cats are all feral

the mice breed and run

the barns tilt and bow

filled with swallows and owls

the chimneys are crumbling

swifts flood through the cowls

the cellars are sodden

now spiders hold court

the carpets are rotting 

and beetles make sport

the beds are unmade
the pantries are bare
the bug and the moth
must now seek other fare

with Germans, Norwegians, 

Americans expired

the rats and roaches

chart brand new empires

ghost fleets in the harbours 

list, founder and rust

the seal and porpoise

do not find it unjust

though lost in the shuffle
some lice a few mites
few lose any sleep
over parasite rights

the house is still home

for the finch and the sparrow

but no more will be built now

for time is an arrow