I betray myself
and lovers who took notice
of a profile photo by the wayside
with a spider’s old sting.
Sometimes I wonder if I am truly alone
or I am surrounded by people who
I do not understand this caring.
I am the sap of stories as much
as I’ve loved stories all my life.
Is this irony,
the stuff of gossamer threads
which spiders spin all in time
as old as tired clothes
on thrift stores?