What Would the Hermit Do?

There’s a spider on the back
Of the old chair on the porch,
Just holding still in the shade,

Small, black spider on the white
Wooden chair getting grayer
In all weathers as paint flakes.

There is no obligation
For the spider to impress,
No need to do anything

Except answer the dictates
Of the hungers that brought it
To life down generations.

If you removed its hungers,
It wouldn’t complain. No one
Would mind a sated spider.

That’s what a hermit would do,
With no salary to earn,
No one around to talk to,

No music to listen to,
No instruments to practice,
No classics to scrutinize.

Maybe sketch a black spider
At rest, a dark character
On a white chair flaking paint.