The spider sits on the transom
over the front door waiting, trying
to decide if it dares attempt entry.
Others of its kind have, never
to return or to do so crippled
and it knows a five or six-legged
arachnid would not be long
for the world it is trying to escape.
I doubt it knows the risks
that lie within, a cat who would
treat it as a feline hockey puck
or, if seen, elicit a call from
one leading to a quick but damaging
exit by the other, no good outcomes,
but it is rumored that there is comfort
to be found within, and food
and shelter are valued
in the heart of a blazing summer.
The spider decides to wait
or perhaps it just knows that
I am watching it and entry
and forced exit would merge
in a very compressed time.