A truck full of spiders backs up
to my front door. None of them
speaks French, but one is
an amazing juggler. They all wear
matching uniforms with a logo
I can’t read and mumble
something official-sounding.
I don’t even have cable,
is the thing. But I let them in.
One stands awkward near the door,
trying to make small talk,
while the others riffle through
my refrigerator, my sock drawer,
the secret stash of emergency
Ramen noodles I hide from company.
They are here for my humanity,
I think. They search the bottoms
of my shoes, the books I’ve used
to squash intruders. Whenever
they find bloodstains, they pile
the things in the living room.
Twenty minutes pass. They gather,
silent, waiting for my explanation.
I’ve known this day would come,
but when I open my mouth,