Mean: a poem

I saw a spider in the bottom
of my tub
as I readied for my bath.
She was checking the drain for droplets
of water and little mites
or silverfish to tide her over
for the night.

She was a hunting spider, rather
than a web-spinner.
She spins a small splat of web in
a dark, dry corner for her egg sac,
but then when it comes to finding food,
she hunts just like any other animal.

We were both in our nightly routine
to keep our bodies strong and healthy,
the way nature evolved us to do.
I saw her and she saw me,
I thought she was a masterpiece
of efficiency, eight strong legs
and eight cunning eyes.
A perfectly-designed being
with bigger thoughts than any of the other
exoskeletoned creatures around her.

But I also thought she looked mean,
so I squashed her with a wad of
toilet paper, and flushed
her away.


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