The kettle whistled its usual tune,
A bit sharp for a Monday morning in June.
she yawned a big yawn then reached for her mug—
A spider waved from the windowsill rug.

“I’ve been here since Wednesday,” it boldly began,
“Dodging the broom like a clever wee man.
Your tiles are cold, the teapot’s warm—
This corner here’s my bachelor dorm.”

The kettle puffed like it knew the score,
Steam curling up through the pantry door.
She paused a moment, with bemused refrain—
“Fancy some tea to warm your brain?”

The spider bowed with a gentleman’s grace,
Then vanished again without leaving a trace.
She found him later near the biscuit tin—
Elbow-deep in crumbs, wearing quite the grin.

Now every brew comes with a glance and a grin,
In case old eight-legs might drop in again.
She talks to the kettle, the mugs, and the jam—
And the radio swears it’s part of the clan.

Some creatures find kin in the strangest of places—
A cupboard, a kettle, two chipped China faces.
And love, if it comes, might not knock or parade—
It might scuttle in sideways and ask for some shade.

• The Kettle And The Spider by Jay Rose Ana