The spider in my old bedroom and I had an understanding
That if I caught one of his friends downstairs or on the landing
They were fair game for a rolled up newspaper or a tissue on the wall.
Even though he and I never shared a squabble,
Except for the time of the lynx can spray attack debacle,
Evidently he knows that other spiders are a free for all.
I’ve screamed the house down for tiny ones and old ones in the corner already dead,
Jumping on tables for those on the floor and dangling above my head
But my buddy under the skirting board was just fine.
I did gasp and hold my breath when I saw him first,
Overcome with terror and spinner bloodthirst
But he was too fast and escaped just in time.
The more this happened the more worn down I became,
Stopped caring about the miniscule arachnid annoying my brain
And began to stop worrying about him finding a new home in my hair.
I’d see him in the morning when getting ready for school
And in later years at night when I’d come home drunk like a fool,
Him sitting guard outside his 3 inch wooden lair.
I’ve since moved away to lands far across the sea and
Returned to the home of my loving family,
This time demoted to a different room.
I’m sure he didn’t like me much either despite
The good memories I have of my friend, the spider,
All the while sendning his family and friends to their doom.
Packed like sardines in an old tin can we push and squeeze and excuse me.
There are no ‘sorry’s here in the no man’s land that is the middle of the cart.
Hands cling to rails and heads are burrowed in books and phones
While homeless people tell sad stories that would break your heart
If you didn’t hear the same story two homeless people ago.
Oftentimes the same story is told with little differences,
Like instead of a sick son it is a girl or wife,
But people don’t care for any of these hindrances
Because we all have places to go and people to see
In this Amazon jungle of a city.
We hurtle along between 59th and 86th at breakneck speeds,
Planting our feet in position to sway with the machine
As the conductor announces a delay at Grand Concourse.
A collective groan rises up, everybody taking part
In this collective self-pity parade of head shakes,
Low mutters and sighs of frustration.
Eventually, finally, behind schedule as usual
the 4 train pulls into another station
That is full to the brim of students, teachers, laborers, preachers
And other professions that won’t fit on the train.
My calves begin to cramp as we wobble towards Burnside Avenue,
Still no sign of a seat or even a space to lean against a door
While veteran riders apply makeup and read books while the place rattles around them.
Train etiquette is still observed as space is made for the elderly, poor
And pregnant passengers as the sea parts for such weary travelers.
The carriage almost empties at Mosholu Parkway,
Leaving me the carriage to myself as we glide into Woodlawn, the last stop on this train.
I swap out with tired people at the opposite end of the working day,
An extremely exhausted changing of the guard as haggard looks are exchanged as
They begin their day and I am almost finished mine.