Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Marge Piercy

Somewhere in the downstairs
a cricket chirps, regular
as a metronome, a windup
clock ticking. We never

see him and no mate
will ever answer. Super-
annuated old man, calling
fiddling for a willing

female to screw, when
outside frost and cold
have hardened the soil,
wiped out the rest

of his clan. Some find
that chirping cheerful;
I find it sad, hearing
a lonesome widower

who’s outlived offspring,
rivals, mates, yet calls
from some warm lair

Copyright © 2008 by Marge Piercy.