I see you there

in the dark parking lot

with your chums

clinging to your little crowbars

and baseball bats.

 

You think you’re alone.

 

But if you step one toe out of line

I’ll be on you like white on rice

or syrup on wheat cakes

or… you get the idea.

 

Flies in a web.

 

The Buick’s alarm then

in a blur of red and blue

I land on your shoulders

push your nose into the damp asphalt

jump twenty feet into the air

leaving your friends

with gaps in their smiles.

 

From my vantage point atop a street light

“Mazel tov, who’s the lucky lady?”

 

You get to your feet

in slow

motion.

 

“Ah,

thanks for stepping forward,

I always have trouble picking who

to pummel first without making it look like

I’m picking favorites.”

 

You pull a gun.

I pull a mask-muffled chuckle.

 

My middle two fingers

apply specific pressure to

the center of my palm

releasing

a thin line of web.

 

Seconds later you’ve been disarmed

and tied to the lamp post.

 

Black and whites are on their way

wailing and flashing

and I am gone before you realize

 

I’ve webbed your shoelaces together.