Counted

Counted and uncounted,
A dead fly is missing
One wing.
I wonder,
If it was the spider who
Who got it.

It scurries along the baseboards
When I turn a light on.
I corner it,
Looking at it look up
At me.
I think of putting my foot down,
But always decide to let
Things be.

It is the kind
That spins no web,
But hunts at night when
We are sleeping.
Feeding on the corpses
Of the things that I don't care
To think about.