Bananas.
The organic ones.
High and tight where stems connect
perfect yellow to mottled green
and spiders can pretend they are
bold and vital small black stars
with eight sharp points instead of five.

Prefab houses.
The ones trucks haul.
Brown and flat against smooth edges
they fold up tiny violins
and count the miles from west to east
dreaming they are wicked witches
greedy for small crimson shoes.

Divorce.
The marriages that split.
Webs torn asunder on an old gray porch
when love turns itself to poison
even though the faithful spiders
tried their very best to stay
still and hidden in precious silk.