© 2016 Barbara Grace Lake

 

There’s that dratted spider
Crawling from his hidden corner
Climbing up and down the valleys
Spattered into painted stucco

There!  He’s reached the face
My idle feverish brain envisioned
Sitting on its muzzle crevice
Making of its grin a grimace

Live it up awhile
I can’t get up, I’m just too sick
For throwing off these rumpled sheets
And lumpy, soggy pillow pad

But I’ll get up tomorrow
When I’m rid of this damned flu
And if you’re still where I can find you
Spider you are going to die