THE CRICKET OF MOROCCO
One cricket in my bathroom,
It sang to me last night.
But as it goes, with me, I needed to see it,
look at its structure, its colors, textures,
examine how it makes such a beautiful song with its wings,
or legs or whatever it uses.
So I crawled out of my bed, silently as possible with my tired, camel-worn butt.
I tiptoed toward the bathroom where I was sure I’d see a shiny, ebony body
Similar to the renowned crickets back home in the Utah desert.
I knew he would be hunkered down
with his black armored coat highlighted against the dirty red floor.
He would be magnificently beautiful for he was singing to me and only me.
Prominently sitting right there in the middle of the cement tiles,
my cricket would be patiently waiting, eager,
And I will see him, and he will see me
and we will share a moment of being one with each other
before he saunters off to his lonely, cold desert home,
outside, beyond my personal space.
I flowed with love for this as yet unseen cricket.
I had not yet discovered him,
but I knew precisely how the beautiful story of this cricket and myself would flow.
I crept closer to the sequined rug hanging over the opening into the bathroom.
Gently I lifted one corner of the carpet as quietly as possible,
And I peered in.
The cricket sang on, seeming louder as if he were as excited to meet me
as I was to meet him.
But no cricket sat in the middle of the red floor,
at least that I could see in the partial moonlight spilling from the window.
Maybe if I hurried to get a light and quickly turned it on,
the cricket would be startled, freezing in place,
and we’d have our eye to eye contact, our moment together.
After a meaningful exchange through our melded eyes,
I would gently lead him outside to find his cricket friends.
Back to my bed, I tiptoed to find the flashlight on my small bedside table.
I groped around, trying not to make any noise,
Feeling with my anxious fingers for the device I had left there.
The light was bright and startled me when I remembered how to turn it on.
Blinking, I crept back to the sequined carpet door once again.
Holding the light up out of the way, I quietly pushed the heavy rug to the side,
spraying the warm glow into the small bathroom.
The little cricket instantly terminated his song.
Thinking it to be frozen in fear behind the toilet, sink or shower pan,
I gently and thoroughly examined every inch of the dusty red floor with my light.
There was nothing that appeared dark, crickety, or even alive.
Always being one to jump on an opportunity, I turned off the flashlight,
sat on the toilet as I would probably need to before this night ended.
“I might as well make this expedition as useful as possible.”
Within a few seconds of turning off the light, his chirping began again.
I knew he was right there in the room with me.
He was so loud and so close I could feel the vibrations of his moving aria.
Quickly I finished my business,
remembering to put the toilet paper in the bucket as
“Only what comes out of you goes down the toilet and into the sewer,”
But, as soon as I turned the light back on, the chirping ceased` again.
“Well, that’s it, no cricket sighting. There will be no conversation tonight.
I tried,” I roared to the little guy, who had no idea of what he was missing,
He was refusing a chance to meet me,
to see this noblewoman to whom he was serenading.
When I was snuggled back in bed,
Mr. Cricket, feeling remorseful for being so reticent,
played me a romantic lullaby as an apology until I fell to sleep.
THE END
THE END
Picture of the cabins made of Moroccan carpets
