I wish my anxieties were dead spiders
in gas station restrooms.
The distant thrum of tires on tarmac they can
no longer hear.
Abandoned,
withered and curled on the roof.
Legs like spaghetti junction
can no longer function… and hurt.
I wish each of the eight would drop off –
crisp autumn leaves
left to languish in piss
on the floor.
Arachnid lost luggage,
excess baggage
I’d screech away from
like Thelma, like Louise.
A couple might resist, try to persist –
damn under-the-weather Walmart-bound kids.
But 90mph dreams get fractured –
False Widows’ ashes at dusk.
I wish my anxieties were dead spiders
in gas station restrooms
that could never
haunt anyone else.
