The spider's egg sack dangles from the broken
side view mirror; it flaps as we drive,
hanging on by the thinnest threads
and I don't know if I want it to fall
or not.
I don't like looking at it, remembering the spiders
that use to roam freely inside the car,
but I imagine it breaking loose,
breaking against the pavement
or remaining intact until it splatters against a tire.
Then I see the spider, clinging to the edge
of the mirror, seeming to watch as its white ball
of fluff and offspring
blows like a streamer in a hurricane.
I don't want it to fall.
I don't think it will fall.
I look away for a moment,
and when I look again, it's gone,
leaving only the spider that just lost everything
in a gust of sir.
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