The Wasp

Its crimson and yellow thorax

Throbbing with pain,

Its wings broken

Keeping it down, unable to fly,

Its extraterrestrial-terrestrial head

Turning and inspecting,

Its keenness for color and the taste,

Having color, of color,

Its love affair with the flower,

Making the stamen turn upwards,

Its burning faltering posture,

Burning because the thing that took

Its wings was a bird whose

Pecking was enough, more than enough to rip

Its wings to shreds,

Burning with envy that the dread bird,

Its mortal enemy, was able to fly

Soaring after it was stung, no care in the wide world,

Its not glowering or pouting, but keeping to itself

Buzzing muttering curses no one but I heard,

Its going away into a small hole to die,

Praying only to buzz and be alone,

It had me not follow it but stay behind it

Thinking of its lonely funereal staggering,

Its whispering buzz

Reminding me with its courage,

Its scar and how it handled the scar,

Walking with such glowing pride that final walk,

It had me think of the many impromptu funerals

Being played small on earth’s floor,

It had me think of my own, my death and all,

Wondering if I might leave with such badges,

Its badges of courage, a scar, pride and envy.