I had been
dreaming of
black Cadillacs
and the stories
you spun
before the
black widow
bite that left
you rotting soft
like fruit
I saw
you part
a greasy
black curtain
to show me
the skin puckered
black against your
milky white
forehead
my arachnid man
came to rest
in an open
music box
instead of
paying homage
I lifted
the needle
off his song
no one
was looking
and so
he simply
sat up
in a tattered
Oscar de La Renta suit
asking me
in a fever
to keep
the damn thing
spinning