The Cricket

The Cricket


I was outside in the sunshine

And you somehow landed on

My black coat laid on the bench.


Without a thought

I reached down


Curled my middle finger

under my thumb,


And sent you tumbling through

The air with a power flick of my finger.


Thinking you would just


Shake yourself off and move on

You just lay on your side twitching.


When I touched you with my shoe tip –




You died and I felt real sorrow.

I wanted you gone, not dead.



All you wanted

Was the warmth

Of my black jacket


On that cool

October day.


When we met


I thought

of myself





FROM: Writing in Sand

Author: William Peters

William Peters is a narrative poet who finds the occasional humor in growing old, past events, familiar objects, and even relationships. His poetry reads like a snapshot in time.

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