Poetry

THE DYING WASP

I knock the guts out
of a wasp,
crudely,
with the round base of a bottle.
For a while
it lies mangled, still,

but then
proceeds to crawl,
trailing
its workings,
a yellow appendage.

In a fierce and
feeble movement
it drags itself
along the perimeter
of the
morning newspaper,
stirring its wings,

having quite forgotten
the bright foods that
drew it
to my table.

My tomato roundly defended,
I do not
finish it off,
allow it to
persist in its
useless bit of courage.

Like the sexual urge
once satisfied,
I cannot
rouse myself
to further violence.

This wasp
will not have any mercy
from me –
I do not have the
grit-tooth
necessary.

Besides,
there’s a kind of
fascination
in its horror movie
perambulations.
Where does it think it is going –

there are times
any movement
will do
for the knowing.

Brought me
in the morning
like a concubine
or Christian

it lumbers
and tracks,
finds a
gap
in the table and
that is that.