roughly six inches from the ceiling,
under a narrow crack in the anaglypta.
Perhaps it is watching me while
I am watching it, but perhaps not.
I lie flat on a thin duvet,
hands clasped behind my head.
A siren rips apart the silence,
a needle in an arm, the broken skull
of a young tart hammered by a psychopath,
drunks booting ribs on Broad Street,
a crushed body slammed in a hit-and run,
diabetic coma, cardiac arrest, stroke
or burst appendix, city life as-is.
So I'll just watch the spider, still wondering
if and why it should bother watching me.