I'm counting legs against a neutral wall;
He hasn't moved now for an hour or more;
With body brown and long, he looks so tall;
I grip my pen; he holds his place most sure.
Is this a standoff? Will he win or lose?
I'd never kill before the sun is up!
Imagine him all dressed and wearing shoes;
He'd drink my coffee, savoring each sip!
Back to counting legs; it looks like seven.
Asymmetry in brown with poise and grace.
If I squash him, will I go to heaven?
Or would he rise to look me in the face?
I'll let him be and greet the sun in time:
For everything, I'm his and he is mine.
8.30.10 in Seattle