Life With Horace

poetry & essays

Leave a comment


Parachutes for certain bugs
I can’t bear to kill.
The one too many ones
the wrong kind of spider
the waving scuttlers.
The latest ugly
makes its entrance,
bringing on a rush
to scoop up elbowed legs
and angled hairy parts, 
run the mercy packet to the door,
wanting to fling, instead just letting go,
the tissue wrapped passenger
floating down to land
on a bed of violet leaves.  


The right kind of spiders? Thin bodied long-legged spiders that look like Charlotte.