if i wasn’t preoccupied with this goddamn spider
then i probably could have written –
ok, listen, there’s a goddamn spider living
on the tank of the toilet next to the rarely-used
Remington razor, and i can’t walk into or
out of the bathroom without contemplating
the mechanics of the life of this tiny creature –
you try walking into a confined room inhabited
by the most reliably static spider and try –
don’t think about the color red – same idea.

this spider is my closest friend, and i hate him
for his constancy and for his doting mute greeting
and his implied, “how was your day? mine was i’m
a goddamn spider who doesn’t move, so i guess
you have the near-accurate mental picture, and
good luck writing later not about a spider, and
good luck in all your large-world endeavors, and
i love you – don’t say anything – i know its mutual,
else you would have crushed me under day-old
newspaper, the old Remington razor case; just
good luck is all.”

goddamn it. not the spider, sorry. goddamn
preoccupation, the concept, social media, reality
television, reality, television, menial labor, a pox
on every trivial thing except thank you to coffee,
to secluded benches in quiet parks where i can think
for one fucking second about any trivial thing until
my mind wanders to the women i’ve walked this park with –
oh, well. it was something for a moment, quiet
and small, not unlike this eight legged creature,
not unlike my best friend, this spider.