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

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