Divining Rod Poem by Keith Langdon

Suffering from a mental itch.
haven’t birthed a poem in a while.
You’d think with daily belching of
Shakespeare, Thoreau, Roethke
Malamud, Steinbeck,
a small diamond would escape from the coal,
but you know what they say about square peg/round hole.
In the center of the tiled hallway leading to my classroom,
a poised and arrogant spider,
large enough to span a Kennedy half,
challenges me in hairy defiance.
A glance at my watch -
7: 44 -
in sixty seconds the tone will change
his domain into a rumbling thoroughfare
for Nike and Adidas.
My foot nudges friendly advice –
not only rejected, but rudely accosted
with instinctive belligerence.
So, free will is respected by omnipotence,
and I step aside and pass on.
Entering my room at the sound of the tone,
I sit with a sigh.
Inspiration will have to wait until after Wilder.