I heard a cricket in Times Square
Somewhere on 43rd street between 7th and 8th
Among the 7am Sunday morning garbage
Littered from Saturday night’s midtown fever
While the street sweepers swept
And early sunlight slowly illuminated glass buildings
And un-homed men urinated unabashedly between parked cars
And the bright billboards blinked their contrasting colors
Empty cigarette butts lay like distant memories scattered on the sidewalks
While junkies finally got some sleep
Amidst the desolate, concrete chaos of the frenzied weekend aftermath
There it was I heard a cricket incongruently, but comfortingly chirp