WASP

A wasp flutters
Through a sunny Saturday
Of picnics and softball,
His soft hum
Met with swatting hands
And rolled-up newspapers.
Giants threatening
His every move,
He at last finds
One sweet perch unguarded.
Resting on the rim
Of a hot aluminum can,
He sips the collected nectar
From the circling divot.
After a few moments
It again ascends,
Fearing armed intervention
In its afternoon refreshment.
It flies over the wooden table,
Stinger ready,
Fearing the worst
And hoping only for a chance
To defend itself when the time comes.