THE SPIDERS

A triangle of glass
Filled with ash
Spider webs glitter
The deck like water
It’s Sunday most
Everywhere I look
Today, everyone
Praying for things
Under breath like
Decency or wrath
Waking up, walking
Down to the Ashby
Swap with Colin
An order of mango
With chili powder
The Abortion, an
Otis Redding LP
Two icy root beers
Someone calls me
An asshole for not
Giving them some
Money, I give them
A look that says
You don’t know
Me but maybe
You’re right, I
Have enough left
For a pickle, carry
It back with me to
Colin’s place, to
The deck, watch as
It drips into a dusty
Web, feel their legs
Crawling in abstract
Space and wonder
Where have all
The spiders gone?