Trespass
This is no place for a cricket
I said out loud
to him and to nobody,
then lifted him gently
into the confines of
an old coffee cup,
belly of a whale
for all he knows of
Columbia and Sumatra,
but they sing there
like he does,
and who’s to say
his are not folklore
themselves —
long-told stories
passed down
late at night,
to our ear
cacophony,
to theirs
a thousand tales
a million years
the universe
in the short patch of grass
now, there, and safe,
as safe as Jonah
I pray silently
forgive us our trespasses
as I walk back to my car
parked askew
in the crowded lot.
IMAGE by Hobiecat. Poem ©2023, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you can read similar in my books and zines, available from Three Chairs Publishing on my ETSY SHOP. They come autographed, with gratitude and a small gift.
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