They know that death is merely of the body
not the species, know that their putrid chitin
is always memorable. We call them ugly
with their blackened exoskeletons,
their wall-crawlings as we paw at them.
Extreme adaptability, we say.
And where there’s one there’s probably a million
more who lie and laugh in cracks close by.
At first they seem so pitiful and base
feeding on what we leave behind. Content 
to watch us watching them, their hidden grace
is endless procreation: it keeps them constant,
believing they’ll live to read our requiem
with the godlike eyes we used to look at them.