High summer in an
old house occupied by
an army of visiting bugs
brings dreams of parachutes
for those I can’t bear to kill
and must evict.
The one too many ones,
the wrong kind of spider.
A waving scuttler brings on
a rush to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts,
run the mercy packet to the door
release the tissue wrapped
passenger, and watch it float
down to sanctuary on a bed
of violet leaves.
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A very old house. In the winter we have critters. Summer brings the bugs The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte.
