The Cricket

We have a cricket
in the house who
chirps day and night.

He has migrated
from under the bed
to under the stove,

to under the bookshelves,
to under the old stereo
system over four days,

and we know this
because he signals,
and we wonder

in the human way,
how he got in,
does he eat our spiders,

and most of all
is he lonely,
does he have a chance

to find a mate,
lost in our world,
will he live?

Our compulsion
to wonder about
parts of a world

with no apparent
need to wonder
for themselves

is as us, as
inexplicable, as
tuneful and monotonous

as the chirping
of our cricket,
day and night.