My knee reposes
5 inches from your hot
And sweating thigh
The sheets are wrapped
Around us
Another restless sigh
And turn
My pillow is knocked
Into shape for the tenth time
I am wide awake
The ceiling fan propels
Thuckety thake
Thuckety thake
The blades performing barrel rolls
A downward spiralling plane
Disturbia
In suburbia
On an ordinary
Friday night
Too warm for covers
Too cool for nothing
And in the end
It is easier to give in
Get up
Drink
A
Shot of water
Drunk standing at the sink
Staring into the darkened glass
Listening
To a dog bark
In the distance
And the three million crickets
Singing
In unison
Of all they will be missing
Tomorrow afternoon
Wondering
Why is a cricket even born
When they live such short
Insignificant lives
But what do I know of such things
Except to think
No wonder they sing
No wonder they sing
Oh yes. No wonder they sing. I really love that.
What we would do if time became finite (which it is) and measurable and we stopped taking it for granted – we are all crickets
That is true. I like that outlook.