I picked a piece of lint
off the bedroom rug
or thought I did,
until the lint flit across my palm.
I flicked it back onto the rug,
ran to get a Dixie cup
but the spider refused
to crawl inside
had to push it, slide it
down the waxy side,
open my front door,
fling it onto the porch.
That night I couldn’t sleep.
Where did it go?
Does its family know?
What if they’re living
underneath my desk
weaving a silken tent
around an old box of letters,
waiting for their daddy
to come home, spin a web,
help them with their spider
homework. I should have
dumped it in the sink
to join the other insects
swimming down the pipes
in our toothpaste and spit.
Or better yet
I should have crushed it
right there on the rug
rather than force it into a world
of idiot squirrels.