The time of spiders

By Adam Gibson

The time of spiders
will return before we know it.

Before we know it
rooms will be declared
off limits
to be entered only with a broom
or other such long stick
stuck into the corners.

And the running upside-down madness
will occur at bedtime as the
hunch of black
that has toured the top half of the house
will disappear and suddenly re-appear
right above one's head
then scurry down behind the bed
necessitating major upheaval
and the stepping forth of
The Brave One
to do the honours
with that stick or a can of Mortein or Pea Beau or
oven cleaner or shower wipe
if nothing else can be bloody well be dug out of

the Museum of Canned Things

beneath the sink,
from behind the rock-hard chamois and the
knuckled-up scrunches of pot scrubbers which
(at a pinch)
can be used to throw at the fugitive if all else fails

and that probably will
as screams fathom the neighbourhood and
toes are stubbed and
swearing is accomplished.

The time of spiders will return before we know it,
the cycle will go on:

spider seen,
spider attempted to be removed,
spider disappearing somewhere,
to maybe die,
to maybe live,
but whatever the case
to almost certainly haunt the memories
of those who interfered with
the natural way of things,
during the time of spiders.