February’s Room

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

Apathetically shivers:

Is the balance swinging too quickly

Towards the goose-step years?