Tumbleweed

I see you;
your retrograde ego recalling lost glories,
eyes dimming each time you walk past the mirror,
as you blind your dumb soul with the chill of your heart.

I see you;
your shallow charms, your grasping arms
~ your stance aping that of a gentleman ~
as you think to fatten each perceived victim,
in a bid to fill your stagnant harem.

I see you;
thinking to win them with takeaway treats,
or tasteless roast dinners plucked from the freezer,
speedily heated and served with fool’s flourish,
and free cigarettes, and cans of strong lager,
and cheapest milk chocolate, and liquorice sweets,
for every sinner who flies in to visit
your vinegar pickled, jerry-built web.

To them, no angel or devil are you;
but a simple, wrinkled trick;
a lewd wallet, spewing cash on delivery.
They belong not to you, but to the night;
buying their prize beyond your sticky sight.

I see you;
your ill-concealed arachnid fangs,
grinning lips seeping thin syrup with bitter stink.
Your organ of male greed may stretch, but it can’t reach me.
I hunger neither for drug money,
nor shallow wallow in semen-stained bed.

And why me?
Did you think I would be a cheaper option;
a practical economy,
or did my steel celibacy offend?
Was it one, or both, of the above,
or were you toying with a dream of love?
Pray, entertain me, sick Prince;
did you really think
 you were in  the running
for even a sliver of me?

I see you;
sad, pale fake of a man.
Beating hearts have no place in your cold domain.
Feebly, you play the sly spider king,
clumsily spitting your flimsy synthetic silk toward  me,
but I break it with a breath,
hissed between clenched teeth.

I see you;
tumbleweed briefly tangling at your feet,
then, freed by a mild puff of wind,
rolling away to safety.

©Jane Paterson Basil