From the vault of my popcorn ceiling
the widow was swaying on a strand
and striking at her master net,
tweaking its barest glint,
all to lure death closer
to steep it in glue
well enough that she can wait now.
,,
It happened in my head
as I listened to her legs
that I would die,
if I could only look down
and find her sneaking in my palm.
,,
I know she is far too beautiful
to be waited on like this,
to be stranded on a string
in the thinned air.
I think I make her miserable.
