The spiders here are bold.
They stretch their thin lines
all the way across the sidewalk,
from fence to wall,
hoping, I think, to clothesline me,
knock me to the ground,
then rush out to secure me
before I struggle to my feet.
Perhaps they dream of
dragging me into their halls,
to feast themselves like Vikings
at the never-emptied table,
hosting kin and granting rings
and singing songs of victory
about my death.
It has not worked yet.
Every time
I walk right through their traps
hardly even pausing in my stride
to let them think that they had a chance.
I am a hammer
to their nets and hopes,
inconsiderate and blunt.
And yet, despair does not claim them.
They are persistent hunters,
for every time I take another lap,
and come again into the space
that runs between
the fencing and the wall,
I have to wipe away a brand new strand
that some ambitious spider
flung across my path
in futile hopes of glory.
One day, bold friend,
you might be king among the spiders
and fete your friends upon my flesh.
But not today.
