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

In the golden hush of evening blur,  
With lamplight stippled soft and dim,  
My wife and I entwined, assured  
By sitcom comforts, laughter’s brim.  
Yet shared across the silver screen  
A sound persists through every scene—  
A single cricket, bold and sly,  
That chirps beneath the TV’s eye.

Ticking, ticking—clear, precise,  
It cleaves the silence, slice by slice,  
A metronome to every joke  
That rides the glowing, swirling smoke  
Of popcorn dregs and stretched-out feet,  
A soundtrack neither planned nor sweet.  
We glance around: is it by chair?  
Or tangled somewhere in the air?  

The movie builds. The hero cries.  
We strain our ears, roll knowing eyes.  
A thousand fates can twist or turn,  
But still that clockwork legs return,  
Insistent as a whispered dare:  
“Find me, find me—if you care!”  
But we, too tired to chase crusades,  
Just let the chirp invade our shade.

My wife smiles wry as credits roll,  
Her laughter soft, conspiratorial.  
“It’s just the crickets, love,” she sighs,  
“Reminding us that time still flies,  
That somewhere out beyond these walls,  
A summer nightbird heedless calls.”  
And so we stay, the three of us—  
A cricket, laughter, and the hush  
Of evening ticking, ticking on,  
Until the night and buzz are gone.

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