You are not inconspicuous,
but substantial, black, and husky
front and center,
a fuzzy, shuffling size-of-a-dime spider
on my kitchen placemats,
those small jungles of fruits and leaves.
You're so talented at being invisible,
why do you risk recurring
for days at my breakfast coffee
and solo pasta dinners?
Eventually, I will be serving
a meal you know
to other people, and
how awkward will that be?
"Paul, Carly, this is Ed.
Ed, this is Paul and Carly."
I can't leave a spider
unnamed,
not one I've allowed to live
unswatted
next to the salt,
among the English essays,
behind the napkin caddy for
what, half of April now?!
My son hates spiders, after all,
and he's home so rarely.
Plus, what would he think about
me keeping a pet arachnid?
So Ed, I implore you,
seek shelter on the screen porch,
spin a myriad of dreams
beside my bedroom sill,
live free and eight-legged
among the cedars
or behind the garbage bins.
I have received your noble
Native American message
of creativity and I submit.
You've conquered me.
I will finish my book.
Now go,
or you'll be the one I reference
on my upcoming dedication page,
"Many spiders died to bring you
this message."


© by Gretchen Friel.
Used with the author's permission.