by Al Cunningham, Death Row
P.O. Box E22600, San Quentin, CA 94964
In the upper left hand corner of my cell
beneath the roof of his weatherproof
concrete sky,
a sly
and ever alert spider catnaps.
A patient fisherman
with one hairy hand on his web-fine fishing line
he awaits the signal announcing
the arrival of another foolish fly
who swimming carelessly into his ocean of air
has become ensnared in the fisherman's net.
Yesterday I watched him
as he gracefully swung
from web-limb to web-limb
an eight-armed Tarzan
trailing a vine of web behind
Once he lost his hold and fell
a short distance into space
but his safety line held fast
and for a moment there
he was like a mountain climber
dangling in midair
and I held my breath until at last
he pulled himself to shore
and I laughed aloud to see him stand
safe but unshaken on his own strand
He sits behind his sticky desk
like a fat pompous official,
Someday when his antics no longer amuse
and I have grown tired of his presence
his whole world will be swept away
with one swish of the broom
and this cell
which some call a room
will be more empty without him
and I shall regret my loss
because he served me well-
he disposed of the flies I loathe.
Moreover
he is a compatible companion
quiet, clean, neat, undemanding
and doesn't occupy much space
and I think it good that
he will never know what whim
caused the stroke
that destroyed him.
I wonder would he be consoled
if he knew that I too
await my fate
and wonder
what broom will sweep me away
and how soon. . . .
