Solitaire
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
unceasingly.
Copyright © 2008 by Marge Piercy.