King of spiders,
Serene, unafraid now, of death,
Warms his new-fire-bloated body
In the crawl space,
The wall space
Above the dusty pelmet.
Routed winter seems in retreat;
tending wounds in Valentine’s mists
We almost fancy we hear the
Advancing belles of spring.
The name of the old, underground god
Is sprayed on establishment’s walls again –
“Coming to the Rescue!”
Polite, beg-steal-borrow society
Is the balance swinging too quickly
Towards the goose-step years?