they say I talk to spiders
I whisper into open windows,
peering into the corners
where dark rows of eyes
regard me with dubious interest
they say I call them “little writer,”
much like the stubbly-bearded oaf
in Ratatouille called his rat-friend
“little chef”
that I name them each in turn,
inspired by Greek goddesses, fables,
children’s stories
I watch them weave intently,
perhaps waiting for something divine,
or for an inspiring word
(humble? terrific with double-r’s?)
and when the cat saunters in,
licking her paw,
fine woven silk clinging to her whiskers,
I mourn as if a friend has passed,
or so they say
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