Sunshine brings the wasp that comes through my open window
and disturbs the whole process
because I can handle the buzzing in my head
but not the buzzing of the wasp outside of it.
I can handle the buzz of this typewriter
and the buzz of the static on the vinyl record
and the buzz of the coffee maker
and the buzz of activity and traffic outside
but this wasp?
He’s fucking the process up
he’s the gum in the works
and he’s the perfect excuse
to not get anything done when I should be.
and now I’ve immortalized him with this poem
(a seriously lofty claim for this poem, and even my own existence
which is immortal as a popsicle left on a car hood
in the middle of the sunshine.)
This wasp has brought a buzzing
and carted in a crisis of thought
with its industrious wings
as I google how long wasps live
and the autocomplete brings up the average lifespan
of adult males
and I am suddenly very worried for the both of us.