Beneath a library window
I’m on the midnight cleaning crew. Behind
that potted tree, the corner’s caked with grime
and cobwebs. Flies buzz, trapped. A spider winds
her sticky ropes around their wings.
Each time
I reach this spot, I stop: lay down my broom,
flick off the lights, head home. No more to sweep.
My boss won’t gripe; he’ll briefly eye the room,
proclaim it pure. He, too, has thoughts of sleep.
Lazy, careless, I am not. It’s just some
innate fondness for the eight-legged kind.
Instinctively I save the web, play dumb
about the dust, let sleeping spiders lie.
Of nooks, that weaver picked the brightest one,
the best for spinning silver in the sun.