Spider On The Bathroom Wall

On the wall here I grip
to the clean glass.
Clinging for my life with
hooks upon the polished surface.
One squeaky slip means death,
or so it looks.

My future is fogging
and my past is a blur.
From my web I came here
but how I can't recall right now.
I can't recall the plodding
ascent upon which I was bent.

I wish I had brought a packed fly
because now I am caught.
Perhaps I'll die
and on this mirror be found dead,
or, there's a thought,
I could let fly a thread.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.