In the basement the cricket and I
sing together. Here and there
his kind lie dead--brittle shells--
or dying. Upstairs, my kind sleep,
one sprawled like a broken doll
in her short bed, another heaped
with covers, his blond hair wet
on a thick summer night. One
other, adrift on the couch,
denies the evening news. Meanwhile,
we sing: he his persistent note,
I, a simple counterpoint.
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