You live with a part of me
I cannot keep company with.
Among snorts, sprays and smells,
after disrobing and unloading,
I leave you each morning
with yesterday’s remnants
in the weather-beaten shanty.
What do my guests say about their guide
hairy webmaster, capturer, torturer
of crane fly and no-see-um?
Do they say my cooking isn’t worthy
of this chat room’s cache?
You, the pharaoh’s curse, scurry across
faded newspaper and frighten
the fairer sex in broad daylight.
A bitten bun, a stung cheek,
your stingy payback for free room and board?
Might you rather spend time
on a #14 short shank
instead of caretaking the john house?
At night, stars burning overhead,
you spin a carousel in the sheltered corner,
negotiate flight patterns
of winged wonders,
live your life in wait.
For the faint of heart
a vigil across the dark path
to the throne is halted short.
With only night vision, a noise
from the black forest turns them back.
You’re left only with fading footsteps
and a muffled fart.
• “Outhouse Spider” is the title poem in Jack Campbell’s newest collection of poems, available in Southeast bookstores. Campbell lives in Excursion Inlet.
