Once we bought a clean house,
with interest rates and expectations low,
and patiently waited the three summer months
it would take for the spiders to return.
Like refugees from some feather-duster hurricane,
they pitched camp in the ceiling corners,
and raised their skinny-legged kids
on dust, and meat pies made of flies.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Robert Ford
would be pleased to hear them.