There is a spider in my bedroom.
It lives in the corner opposite my bed,
nest quashed between a chair and the wall.
There it sits day and night,
eight legs spread in a tight-rope stretch
in its home-spun silk hammock,
waiting for some unlucky soul to flit by
and loose itself in his trap.
We have an agreement, he and I;
for though my fear of spiders is great,
my hatred of ants and flies is greater still.
So, there he sits still, web smooshed in that little corner,
hunched in anticipation
for his net meal to arrive