the spider scurries across the wall

horseshoes clang against the metal spike

a warm wind blows through the canopy of trees overlooking the river

and still the traffic sits still on the highway

miles ahead a cop sits with his finger on the trigger of the radar and it registers zero in all the congestion

the road has pneumonia or bronchitis and the phlegm build up has all the ants trapped in little plastic boxes of sweat and bile

laughter rings out in the distance

but no one hears it over the bumper to bumper waste of fuel

but still the spider scurries on a mission to fuck or feast

it doesn’t know any better than the radar gun as to why the traffic doesn’t move

the steady ting of metal as another ringer gets thrown

that goddmaned spider is oblivious to it all

the furry bastard

like the mustache on the cop’s lip

it’s just along for the ride

if it could it would peel itself off the lip and coast down the river

away from the cars and trees and spiders off on an errand to the dusty corner of the ceiling to spin a web

a flashing red series of zeros and going no where fast