Crickets in an Airtight Jar
Denied foothold and access to breeze, their bodies invent, hum
up the glass and down, some sluggish some wild against others
who would be as rude. If you put a nail through their universe's
metal lid, they'd just be silent a moment, then impertinent again.
Does the boy who holds their frantic globe grasp the intent or
intensity of the matter? A question for the science of cheap hooks—
a barb to the bugs' undeveloped brains. Papa's got a knack for tricks,
knows his knots and does well not to bring the guts around mama—
his little messy bundle beneath the dock, bobbing in rhythm.
The birds circle the municipal pier but land at golf-link lakes.
Footsteps overhead—passing sound of strangers—are a curfew of sorts.
A cuff against the noggin and with a flourish the poles are packed,
the gear stowed. How he taught the quiet ways of good sports—
resealed the fear inside its glass. A world frantic for want of air.
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