Of Spider Webs

 I feel pretty dank
this morning
after a night of spider webs and such
I
feel
like cement and arrogance and shame
battered.
My wife,
(Mrs. Wilson)
asked me to squash a brown spider
crawling on the doorjam
to our bedroom.
I killed the thing
with a dirty pair of underpants
I picked up off the bathroom floor.
So I tell you
the spider is dead.
And I shall not be
walking into spider webs
any longer.
Still
I am dank
at eight this morning,
sabbath day
and I am to work.
East carrots for improved eyesight,
but my eyes are not the problem.
Dank,
dripping puddles somewhere in my body,
mixing with dried cement,
laments,
and regret
I
keep walking into spiderwebs
for the good of my family,
or my own arrogant ambition?
For I tell her:
“there is truly nothing there,
the spider is squashed,
can produce silk no more.”
But I am the only one
who really knows anything
about spiderwebs.