The Art Gallery

The artist surveys the empty room, tired from a long, toiling night.
Her sleepiness turns into triumph as the gallery buzzes with tourists.
Soon her hard work will be worth it.
She catches herself,
It is too soon to celebrate.
As the artist watches,
Her guests admire the silver glimmer of her latest creations.
She wonders if she should join them.
No. She wouldn’t want to scare them off.
So the artist waits in the corner,
Watching as one by one the visitors depart.
Oh! This would not do. She hadn’t even made a profit.
She paused.
A visitor was moving toward her favorite tapestry.
He stopped,
His eyes flitting up and down,
Studying as the morning light reflected off a single thread,
Fluttering in the breeze coming from the window.
He drew closer, unable to resist a touch,
He noted the fuzzy, woolen texture,
Until slowly the texture turned sticky, almost glue-like, and . . .
He was stuck.
The artist revealed herself, satisfied,
The spider’s web had caught another meal.