You can't stroke a spider

they're just not made that way -

skittish, easily deterred by foolish intentions

 

the hysterics of sudden movement, then

they scuttle into black abysses

peering into the dark

pressed almost flat like paper clips

ready to spring,

and their killing sprees belie their shyness.

 

But in gardens

always the royal highness in a web

on throne of gossamer

when the sun is sullen and on its knees

they draw with gravity the flitting distress

 

They waste not and want not

with their wanton spite,

and are not averse

to afternoon delight.