Cricket

Why should a man love a cricket, and not a cockroach?
They both have wings.

A little cricket lost herself in my house, and there
The poor girl is, lonely in the darkness, somewhere.

She sings and sings.
No answer.

I drift into some vague semblance of sleep,
Writing this poem about her.

Somehow, I cannot approach
The quality of that version

In consciousness. She's only a cricket.
But I love her.

Her little insect gloss,
Pristine, still.

Ah, here's the difference!
It's because she sings!

Yes, singing her heart out
Because she is lonely. Like me, I guess.

Grown man, in love with
A tiny insect, how sad is that?

Or I would love her, that is.
If I could figure out how to

Stick it
In something that little.