little fella

there was a cricket
in the bathroom
and when you went to take a piss
you had the feeling
you were out in the woods.

many people tried to get rid
of the little fella
but as soon as they got close
the noise would stop,
and the little guy
would keep calm
and play nothing.

someone suggested that it wasn't
a cricket,
that it was the fan,
but that didn't go over too well-
"fans don't fear for their life," said
a regular, "and whatever's in there
is alive."

the thing lived
through two fumigations.
it kept up its music,
courting its one and only
through the smoke and fumes
and winters,
while men flirted with walls
that looked like women
and talked of the dodgers
and the lakers
while eating whatever was around.

one day, though, the sound
stopped.

either the cricket got laid, moved on,
or just gave up music
in both its forms.

whatever it was, once it left
the days and nights
got shorter,
we had even less to talk about.
our mascot, our god, our music, our minds,
were gone,
and we had no idea
where they went.
and yet we went on
losing a little more at a time.

a man can always lose
more than
he has

he can lose
what's yours as well