Almost never do I see the doers of the deed,
those makers of the ghostly artifacts
who spit and glide their slithery threads.
I never catch cobwebbers in the act.

Who’s ever seen a cob?  And why aren’t these
called spider webs, like the fly-catching
nets of renaissance geometries
artfully stretching between this and that?

I’ve seen the graceful spider.  I’ve admired
her art.  But this unpatterned, sticky, lurking
stuff in stairwells, creeping up the walls higher
than I can reach—it is another kind of work.

Simply ex-pressions, I guess, such dirty deeds
come into being randomly, and on the run.
The only probable design?  Raw need.
Then shameful exit when the thing is done.

Some creatures seem to have no pride,
(or too much) doing what needs be nobody’s job.
Knowing this, they skulk away and hide.
No wonder I have never seen a cob.

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