A spider hangs above my ceiling
Ink-black, eight eyes on their torso
I crave a rest on its web
a newspaper, coffee steaming against my palm
But it seems inhospitable
It fancies bugs and flies, not 22-year-olds
and I bet it aches to lecture, with all might
"Get off your bed, you failure of a poet!"
But it can't, spiders lack vocabulary
Or maybe they do