A vile filled with

Vinegar,

And water,

(And some other inactive ingredients)

(Oil noticeably absent in this scenario)

Resembles in

Shape

&

Clarity

An ordinary vase,

For some flowering plant to sprout.

Bought not from

A  roadside boutique,

That would emphasize an affinity for both

Flora

&

Fauna

But instead from

A  crowded grocery store

That plays music that

Cant

Ever

Seem

To

Be

Heard

That also

 Somehow specializes in both,

Pest control

&

Garden-hoses.

 Stored  on cold metal shelves,

Next to

Painted fish

Trapped in tanks,

Living on shelves,

Swimming in such bright lights,

Breathing  in the luminescence,

Instead of the water.

But the smell,

The poison,

From this treacherous trap,

Punctuates

&

Permeates,

Clinging to the near-by counter-tops,

That are already littered with crumbs from

A recently consumed bagel.

(Cockroaches already having fled the scene, once the lights became apparent)

Inviting all other insects from all around to dance here,

Even the congregation of reverent mantes attends,

Blessing the ceremony

With both

Their presence

&

Their scythes.

They are not exempt, though.

They too will dance their final dance.

And pray their final prayers.

For a  full months time,

(Excluding leap-years)

It will become an almost permanent fixture.

An acrylic mausoleum.

Getting washed for free by

Accidental splashes

Of

Synthetic lavender

&

Very real lemon juice.

So to retain it’s shine,

&

It’s effervescent splendor.

In addition to being the recipient

Of

Of many misplaced sun-beams,

Through fragmented kitchen windows,

Obviously meant for other commodities.

Looking more

&

More like a movie -star every day.

Looking more and more,

Like a statue,

Every day.

And as idle idols will insist,

A persuasion will ensue.

Sugar

&

Salt particles,

(Alpha & Omega)

Will gather at the base

Of  the eventual sarcophagus.

Gradually dissolving the line

Between,

Pet and pest,

And exponentially increasing

The ubiquitous  appeal  of the trap every day.

Even to the throng of

Spiders that spin webs like wizards,

 Because even these casual ingredients,

Sugars,

&

Spices

(Spiders also included)

 Know that,

So long, as

The disingenuous trap remains,

Presiding over the lawless kitchen,

(Like a proud sheriff.

Of a tumble-weed town.)

Steadily infecting it with the stench of

Deception

(And vinegar, still)

The

Cruel wax-paper replacement,

The tasteless,

The odorless

Entity.

(With no relation to the sticky-note)

Wont

And cant be the next dignitary to take the stage.

The wax paper doesn’t discriminate

(Or know the difference)

Between

 Consumables

&

Arthropods

Ingesting

&

Then digesting both

Spider

&

Spice,

Would become a matter of simple circumstance.

Reducing them to  a perpetual state of visceral fluidity.

Like the prehistoric tar-pits,

That are the obvious predecessors.

The original museums.