I hear the voice of a little girl.
Exterminator! Exterminator!
She’s maybe nine years old.
I answer the door.
She walks in holding a clipboard.
Her father follows.
He’s smiling.
He knows me.
We do this every second Saturday of the month.
“Please sign,” she says authoritatively.
Her father makes his rounds.
“Thank you,” she says.
I hand her a dollar.
She adds it to the clipboard.
Her father exits the kitchen.
“I no use near food…” he says with regard.
They leave.
Exterminator! Exterminator!
Y escribi este poema.
Words Of An Average White Male 