In today’s midnight I have to weave
A poem around the spider that had
Fallen on my body and would crawl
To silky promise of my new clothes.

I would scrub this crawly thing off
And would watch it crawl on floor
In fear others might not tread softly
On new clothes hopes of old dreams.

In poem I should not spider-weave
A tale about spider’s instant death
Under unknowing lunch eating feet.
In a poem I cannot dwell too much
On a stray spider’s micro tragedy.

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