Savior

In the stooped squat of age, I grab a plastic cup and lid
    stealthily bend toward the corner
    where he cowers.

Sometimes she with eight legs and a thousand babes
    often a skeeter-killer or trembling moth
    swept up in darkness thrown softly to waiting leaves.

If they sting or bite I kill them dead
    on the spot with bodily force
    before they hurt my beloveds.

But isn’t it so that I sit safely on this hill
    where I assume righteousness
    yet only the brave step forward to brandish belief.