You Can Always Count on Nature

Zachary Grasso

Spider moves to piece of leaf I threw
in otherwise uninterrupted web, but
quick to surmise that web’s vibrations

were only false alarms,
he begins to clean up my mess,

as if he’d been waiting
by the mailbox all morning
and received only bills.

Spider works hinges on chopstick limbs
to remove green stain from ghastly gossamer,
then drops it in bushes below,

and I wish the little octopod
best of luck for the remainder
of his little lifespan;

may he make silken mummies
of many passersby, fit his niche
like deodorant stick to underarm pit,

and may he avoid any more
of the boyish lust for life

that uses magnifying glass and sun,
and pulls off weaker legs than his, one by one,
to learn.