“A cricket in the room where my wife and I watch television that keeps ticking, ticking, ticking.”

In the corner, behind old cables and dust,  
A cricket holds court while the screens combust—  
Blue flickers of sitcoms and late-night pursuits,  
Yet his ticking persists in the still resolute.

His tiny song echoes, a metronome bright,  
Between every punchline and soft hallway light,  
As popcorn is crunched and we nestle and sprawl,  
The cricket keeps ticking—unseen above all.

We pause for his chorus; our dialogue waits,  
The weather, the actors, the sweep of the fates.  
Yet his time-keeping wings never tire or rest,  
A clockwork reminder: this home is our nest.

I wonder: Is he lonely, serenading the gloom?  
Or proud to perform in our television room?  
A whisper of summer, a night in July,  
While frost curls its fingers at windows nearby.

Your head on my shoulder, the show rolling on,  
Cricket and laughter merge into one song.  
So let him keep ticking his steadfast refrain—  
A small life declaring, again and again,

That even in glow of our favorite displays,  
The world hums with music, persistent, unfazed—  
A cricket, a couple, a long winter’s night,  
Each heartbeat and chirrup a glimmer of light.

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