by Elsa Johnson

It was a strange place to call home   If you’d been

bigger you’d not have fit the gap in the passenger

side mirror where you’d anchored one end of your

filigree web    I’d glance over as I sped down

the road and there you’d be — not tucked safe in your

den but gale tossed   scrunched to a blip   a small

ship clutching threads   When I’d arrived where I

was going    thinking to find you desiccated –

dead –  you’d unfurl your spider legs no worse

for wear    I began to think you liked it     You 

went everywhere with me until the day I 

chose for you a less dangerous life    (I hoped)

Miss you   —   see you still  :  goggles    jacket    

thin silk scarves trailing in the slip-stream wind