I was thinking
summers and cicadas go together,
alliteratively and in nature
          I like them both;
maybe I’ll write about them.

Then
I remembered Billy Collins
          going on a rant
about cicadas.
Everyone writes about cicadas, he said.
He was sick of reading the word,
he said.
He wouldn’t read another poem
with a cicada in it
          he said.

Damned Yankee, I thought.

Mark Twain said
          “Write what you know.”
I thought,
“I’m from Oklahoma. I know cicadas.
Screw Billy Collins.”

John Galsworthy said,
          “Write what Interests you.”
I thought,
“I’m from Oklahoma. Cicadas interest me
          sort of...
Screw Billy Collins.”

So I decided I’d write about cicadas
           and summer
                     but mostly cicadas.
Screw Billy Collins.

It would be a summer of cicadas
          with cicadas singing cicada songs. 
I would praise the much maligned cicada.
There would be cicadas in the tress,
cicada husks on barn doors
cicadas here
          cicadas there
cicadas every fucking where you look
          and
I would title it “Ode to Cicadas”
like Wordsworth or maybe Percy Shelly.
It would be a grand tribute to cicadas.

I read it aloud.

I think it said “cicada” twenty some odd times.
The word was humming in my head
like the damned creature itself,
up in the trees.
All I could hear was cicada, cicada, cicada.
I paused
          cicada
                    cicada
                              cicada.
 
The word was buzzing in my brain.
I wanted to run.
          I wanted to scream.
I wanted it to stop its interminable scraping
like a ...
          Oh Lord, no,
                    forgive me Billy Collins.

They shall be locusts from now on.