In The Basement

The spider at the bottom of the bath,
engulfed in liquid, static as a tack,
legs folded inward, tiny torso black
as venom, clearly took a perilous path.

Slight as a droplet, a mere nano-blot
of ink or paint upon a field of white,
it likely fought the good arachnal fight
before it drowned like a forgotten thought.

Did this Lilliputian creature screak in panic?
Overturn itself and try to float,
limbs flailing like the oars of a foundering boat?
Sink like a seed? Or was its war titanic?

The water in the bathtub must be drained,
and the spiders in this basement must be trained.