Six hairy legs support him, with two more that serve as arms,
A sober housemate, is that Jack, though not without his charms.
I met him quite by chance when I was stooping for a key,
He crawled out from behind a board to glower up at me.

No bigger than a thumbnail, and no smaller than a dime,
Jack caught me unawares; a furry misanthropic mime.
He hopped upon the key I'd lost and pranced around a bit,
As if to plainly state, t'was his, and dare I go for it.

Not knowing if his bite would prove, say, venomous to me.
I sat beside this spider who was sitting on my key.
While each observed the other, not a movement did we make,
Until that bold Salticid Sitticus bowed low, and spake:

"I want to let the record show - before we share this place -
My name is Jack; I'm easy, but don't crowd me in my space.
Don't ask me for a story, I won't ask you for a ride,
The 'Raid' goes in the trash bin and, please, keep the cat outside."

Jack paused and cocked an eye at me. Did I have questions? Good.
He'd said his piece, he found a crack and crawled back in the wood.
We haven't spoken much since then but for a quick, 'How do?'
I've learned to share my home with him; and he shares his home, too.

Max Pearson, 1999