Who's there?

It’s dark.

It’s day.

They have shutters over the windows.

They’re seldom here.

I’ve kind of got the place to myself.

I stay still.

I keep myself to myself.

Slowly strolling shafts of sunlight, insinuate themselves through the slits in the shutters

and amble across the walls

The fittings

The furniture

The floor

And I watch.

It’s nice.

I like it.

Slow, though.

I prefer night

when things start moving

and I see the swift, shutter skewered beams of the passing cars’ headlights, stream their slanted stripes across

The fittings

The furniture

The floor

Then

Utter dark.

And I keep utterly still.

Something I’ve always been able to do.

Born to it.

Mind you, if something brushes past my leg in the dark, I’m off.

You never know.

But if I feel something, you know?

Like we all really feel things,

even though we don’t see them

but we know it feels right

I’m on it.

I’m a spider.

What else would I do?

Author Notes: Sort of not a poem and yet looks like one