clings to the cracks in
the bricks of my vestibule
like a blind rock climber patting
the surface with stick hands
and a cane,
probing for new lines to chock its
bug-spit carabiners,
waiting for a brighter light,
the touch of a mate,
an acrid puff of air.
it has no driver’s license,
and it smells bad
devoid of compassion, its life
charted by a
jagged, vertical path on the wall.
without malice, but then a sting,
it may unwittingly
kill me.
no public notice, no knock on the door.
I will not understand its motive.
It will not understand my funeral.
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