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.