He Loves Me

     Eight legs.  Each counted, gingerly.  He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not.  Last, the body.  He loves me.  I place him gently in the tank I have for him.  It's filled with all the fauna of his native land.  It's important he's comfortable.  There's a small branch there.  Currently, he hides behind it.  My boy is shy, just like the Pointer Sisters sing.  The tune hums in my head, almost involuntarily.  I show him the fly then.  Grasped between tweezers.  It's important the fly be alive.  He likes it that way.  I lay the fly gently in it's tank.  "You're welcome!"