Pleasure to Serve You

The pillars and the jar carry my plight, the weight of time on a cup.
In the container, the dark grains congregate at the basin bottom.
With an invisible scale, the liquid waves move back and forth,
leaving stained circles for the floating eyes above the rim.
To the left, on a seat, a white figure weaves lines of blue.
On the right, the waiting legs of a flag pole spider,
hanging in the dead air of an embroidered paper vase.
The cardboard gossamer seems like a racket,
a plaything of gods and castaways and consumers.
The hands endlessly wrapping around a circled frame.
The lines coming from below and held above the head.
The character plays imaginary tennis in the lap.
Weaving a thread on a disposable cup,
eyes above the recycled spider prop.
Anchored on a pole, eight legs, dangling,
waiting to catch the spinner and spectators,
staring back to garbage dump flies, gnats, beetles, and bees.
Instead of the reusable art in service of our hands.