See the spider pull on her waffle trainers,

slide each leg into warm ups,

soft nap of brushed fiber jersey.

She straightens each joint, then bends it swift to keep

the pant from falling down while she attends to another of the eight.

She hopes that her appendages have not grown,

no one wants to see her ankles in

high water pants.

North, South, East, West,

the route from home hardly matters.

To see the the grey house under construction?

The river fat with rain?

The show house on the South Side,

open for tours Sunday afternoons from 12 to 4?

She knows to walk her muscles out,

Warm up her ligaments, her tendons taut from clinging.

Step to step to step step step step step step,

Eight legs untangled in rhythmic stride.  As soon as one

has got the beat another lags behind.

She clenches her chelicerae in concentration,

scans six eyes for cars crossing the street.

To leave a thread or not?

What is made is so satisfying.

But to run free, making herself, leaving no trace

But the tautness in her

legs, her abdomen.

the pen tell her:

let me run and leave no mark.