I listen to a cricket
I name James Joyce.
We are both up past midnight
Too late, talking in our own idiosyncratic ways
To an ice maiden of a moon
Indifferent to us both.
I hear the intonation of a long yarn
Some indignation of tone, a slight agitation
While I wait my turn. Mine is a different tale
Less urgent, silent as the dreams of the sleeping ,
Punctuated with pause
Insubstantial, undecorated, travelling slowly.
James Joyce is up all night and in the morning is lamenting
Still, a fallen hero croaking through the day as Molly and Leopold
Unravel in his writing blooming into life.
The moon moves on, the book unfinished
Though the next day the urgency is still there
The cricket going on and on
And on until his lungs rupture from the crying
As he chases her through the universe
Copyrighted by the author