Spider

I have only come across a tarantula once in my life 

outside a roadside souvenir shop, along an empty Arizona road. 

The faded, corn-yellow cinderblock shop was wider than it was deep,

and was topped with a matching corrugated roof.  

Dinosaurs were painted along the front, alternating with soldiers and Indians

and rattle snakes gazing blankly at the passing cars from various unnatural angles. 

Inside the shop, dank cool air spewed from a rumbling old swamp-cooler.

Row after row of shelves teemed with polished rocks, small potted cactus

and straw cowboy hats surrounded by tables loaded with piles of turquoise jewelry. 

As the proud new owner of a plastic cavalry sword, I made my way out 

past the tinkling front door bell to the dusty parking lot. 

Back out into the searing white sun.

While practicing my parry and thrust, a black object launched itself 

from somewhere left. I focused on it about mid flight

and clearly watched a tarantula, bigger than my wide-spread fingers,

land in the middle of the hood of a recently parked,

still ticking-hot black sedan. 

Arizona, summer, and the hood of a car fresh off the road

pulled the fire alarm for those eight furry feet. 

The spider only managed to collect its wits for a second or two

before it jumped again, but this time straight back up;

which just bought him a second taste of hot American steel. 

A final leap produced a puffy landing in to the dust.

Like a crawling powdered wig of a proper British parliamentarian    

It scurried away in search of aloe vera or maybe just some shade.