Gossamer

Round the corner and past a pole—unseen by my eyes a thin gossamer hangs taut between a stop sign and a streetlight. Caught on my glasses, I wiped it away hurriedly, brushing the web in frantic movements. It’s one of my pet peeves, breaking them. There’s the worry I didn’t remove it all, or had a spider in my hair, and the knowledge that I alone destroyed its creation.