bradley mason hamlin | lady spider

Lady Spider

The
lone palm
watches
over
us

Chet Baker’s
gentle magic
flows from trumpet

as smooth
and cool
as the warm
pre-summer
breeze

ghosting
up and down
the valley

Paul Newman
provides
the red wine

as if in sync
with the
rojo hourglass

on the belly
of
the spider

she’s
hanging
a little south
of our patio
umbrella

listening to
Chet,
and swinging
just a
little bit …

maybe
she digs
the god-like
shade
of the palm giant

or
the intoxicating
bouquet
of the cabernet

whateverthefuck

she
must die

I think
she knows this;
she took her
chances

and,
the blonde
has already asked,

“What’s that
spider
hanging there?”

you know
in California
you’ve gotta be
prepared for
death
and danger

living
so close
to edge of world

I lift
a
spade –

and tell myself

her deadly poison
could kill my
kid
or my cat

black widows
are like
that

she tries to run …

yet,
by the time
you read these words,
she’ll be
as
dead
as

Chet & Paul
and the
empty bottle

of Sauvignon

dead,
but never
forgotten.