This Morning,

By | 1 May 2019

after putting on a sweatshirt
I left on the floor last night, I felt something
feathery tickle the back of my neck
so wiped it with my hand and saw, crawling
on my hand, a not-very-big black spider.
“EeeeeyaAHHH!!!” I screamed,
flapping my wrist and flinging the spider
to the carpet. “Motherfuckshit,”
I spluttered. (I had the heebie-jeebies.)
Keeping it in my sight
I grabbed an anthology of contemporary poetry
and dropped it on top of it, pressing down
like a paramedic on a chest.
“Sayonara,” I said. But when I lifted
the book up, the spider wasn’t dead.
It looked like a booger, tinged with blood.
Its broken legs gave little kicks.
Would you believe me if I said I glimpsed
myself in that moment, a crippled widower
suffering before death?
I placed the book back over it
and pressed down, harder.

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