The Spider

It’s all in the voice.

Well, the voice and the eyes.

He’s tenor. Not a Pavarotti tenor,

With a voice that’s groomed and refined

until nothing earthly remains.

His voice has lived.

It has pierced the nicotine haze

of bars and nightclubs.

It has laughed and cried without restraint,

and it can writhe and twist

with ironic intent.

And the eyes will always find you,

even if you hide.

They grabbed me as I tried to pass,

eyes lowered, on my way to the door.

They caught me, and I became still,

and in the stillness I listened

and was trapped.

The guitar spun around me until I couldn’t move.

Then his voice entered my blood.

My pulse weakened.

My breath slowed.

And I was lost.