there was a spider climbing a windowsill in Brooklyn,
looking for shelter from the pitter-patter night.
it had hairy little fangs and bony legs,
with beady pleading eyes
and a big ugly abdomen that would have waddled
if not for the extra legs.
it sat in the corner of the sill spinning a web
so thin the wind nearly carried it away,
and as it spun it watched an old man sit back in his
armchair, smoking a hand rolled cigarette.
The man looked up,
saw the spider, and reached for a slipper on the floor,
but when he bent down, he came eye to eye
with the pathetic little thing,
watching the ends of the unfinished web swing in his breath.
He sighed, sat back down, and fell asleep reading a book instead.
In his dream, he was hounded by mosquitoes,
running through the streets for his life and what remained of his blood,
until he turned the corner,
quickly he stepped to the side,
and watched the mosquito swarm fly into a web.
The pathetic little spider sat off to one side,
with a smug satisfied smile,
having a smoke.