It is almost midnight in my therapist’s dining room
where I am quite at ease for a black widow spider.
I dine on fear, a deep well for a snack.
No reason to be scared.
Turn on the light.
My doc gets paid twice what she should;
we’ve been tangling, untangling
this mess for years.
Why does she insist I am not a spider?
I am too hooked into the squalor
on the table called life.
A starving ghost picks through the aftermath—
chaotic leftovers of garbage.
The clock strikes.
The room whispers to me.