Spider

It’s an old house, 110 years old,
and old houses have bugs like secrets.
We practice live and let live policies
toward spiders, even the big ones,
fat, juicy spiders, like wolf spiders,
a personal favorite predator,
they are older than spider webs,
they spin not and toil patiently.
I appreciate their presence
however much they worry the cats
when they scuttle by on tiny feet
they are bigger than a silver dollar
and would fit nicely upon a saucer
arranged for a demitasse.

Sixty-Five

I’m nearly 65, it’s April, birthday
a month away, today I changed a flat
on the Jeep, onward, forward to bike
around traffic, back and forth, office bound,
burn some calories, lose some fat, put muscle
spot on the here and now, spit and polish,
taking the bus – the 36 – uphill, home,
I would never let the guys at work know.
I cheat like that, they do, too, we all cheat
at dice, brag about there, when, where, how,
to young men and women, thieves and liars,
damn nice people at the core with designs
on my time, cops are not my best friends.
prison is not my retirement plan.

Craig Thompson writes in several genres, including poetry, essays, and plays. His writing has appeared in the Seattle Times, Seattle Weekly, and Time Magazine. For the Jungle Project, he was awarded the City of Seattle’s Denny Award for exceptional stewardship of environmental restoration and leadership in supporting Seattle Parks and Recreation’s race and social justice goals. He lives in Seattle with spouse Ariel, their two cats and Bud the Wonder Dog.