A TAN SPIDER IN MY HAIR
perches too light to feel, iffy,
gangly in the rear mirror,
hydraulic legs delicately typing,
picking its way, no highlit
yellow lines or margins in my fibril mop.
I’ve been out raking under the willow,
tree of picnic naps, bugs and pastel love
that slides its sinuous roots into the septic field,
an alcoholic to the corner bar. Knows
what it is doing.
I steer my way, braking, shifting,
touch and go, lightly, haply, before and after
the vanishing road ahead, the caution signs
fresh or weathered, some shot-pocked,
that flit by …your lovely face, others, like mine,
behind glass while the spider taps.