. The Cricket These mornings there’s a cricket cross the way Whose chirrup purls and eddies in the air, Autumnal now and cool, to counterpoint The city’s muffled thrum as well anoint The drowsy traipsing of my early prayer. A cricket on the hearth is luck, it’s said, And though to call an empty New York lot A hearth may be a metaphor too far, The thought of luck itself is quite bizarre And either one buys into it or not. In general I trust grace far more than luck, Yet looking at the world and its upsets, Although I know full well I should have qualms At mixing lucky crickets with my psalms, There’s mornings I must cover all my bets. . . A Moment on the A I think they got on somewhere in the Heights: Two Mexicans; accordion; guitar. Their harmony was simple and so dear That suddenly my eyes were filled with tears, And then they moved on to another car. . . Jeffrey Essmann is an essayist and poet living in New York. His poetry has appeared in numerous magazines and literary journals, among them Agape Review, America Magazine, Dappled Things, the St. Austin Review, U.S. Catholic, Grand Little Things, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and various venues of the Benedictine monastery with which he is an oblate. He is editor of the Catholic Poetry Room page on the Integrated Catholic Life website.