It’s a wonder that anyone sleeps
through this throb of crickets.
In the crook of night, they pulse,
shrill with discarded woes:
last week’s indignity, some spilled chance,
a secret plight, the triumphant lie.
Soon the birds will arrive
to suck it up. They’ll give us dawn
digested, ready to run. It’s them
we’ll thank, forgetting again
this fury that flushes our veins.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 3.
Evelyn Clark Farbman has retired from 30 years of community college teaching in Connecticut. She is revising some poems written during those years and is writing new ones. Her work has appeared in Sing Heavenly Muse, Tar River Poetry, and several transient regional journals.
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Evelyn Farbman
