Dear Spider, please!

Dear Spider,

Please

go somewhere

else to build

your work of 

art.  It is 

splendid; I 

appreciate its

complexity

and its beauty

and your

industriousness,

but your art

is in an inconvenient 

place.  You are big 

for a spider, and I

have no idea if

you are venomous 

(though I am likely allergic to you even if you are not), 

but in a contest 

between you 

and my vacuum, 

my vacuum cleaner 

would win.

(Until you crawled out in the middle of the night to wreak spider vengeance on me and then sleep on my nose, so you'll be the first thing I see in the morning, so I can wake up too paralyzed by fear if your venom hasn't already rendered me dead, in which case, the sleeping on my nose would be kind of overkill, don't you think?  Let's be reasonable here, as much as we can.)

But I'm not sure 

it would kill you, 

so there would have to be 

flailing and smashing, 

and neither 

of us would 

enjoy that at all.

Please, for the love 

of God, go 

build your lovely 

web somewhere 

else.  

(Seriously.  Even in front of the screen door instead of the door I actually use.  Go now.  Please.)  

I wish you well 

there

in direct proportion

to your distance 

from me.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Wants to Use Her Deck Again Some Day Soon.