His beer bottle sweats rings
onto the concrete driveway
as the man considers the mud
organ pipes climbing the wood supports
under the eaves.
A black wasp thrums past
carrying something that seems
mostly legs up to the pipes
and wrestles the still body
the many, now unseeing eyes
into the dark cell. The man
is reminded of Poe, the slow bricking
in the dark wine cellar.
But the day is hot, bright,
and the man has other things
he should be doing. Another wasp
another sound effect
and he’s thinking of Italian teens
with drunk friends
clinging to the backs of scooters,
a scene he’s never been a part of
but imagines it to be a better scene
than contemplating yard work
on a hot day in the Midwest.
A third wasp, the end of the beer
and this summer turns into last summer
and next summer as well
and the man thinks that the wasps
will die before he will,
but neither of them will get very far.
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