Writer Between Worlds

It’s morning.

A spider has just rappelled down on my desk,

where I was writing a goodbye letter.

He stopped an inch short of touching it

and is hanging there, by his own thread,

suspended,

like me.

I cannot breathe.

I’m watching him wrap the whole room up in sticky wordless webs,

so nimble, like an eight-fingered pianist’s hand,

tapping the table,

waiting for a thought or waiting for

prey.

He’s off. He scurried speechless.

They say it’s bad luck to see a spider in the morning.