Yes, there's the snag with September,
the wasps, strangely absent all summer long
save for one, the Lone Sentinel, make raids
upon our toasted sandwiches.
Joe,
whose school is moving sites,
(for some wonky reason I imagine
prefabs on giant lorries, escorted
by a crawling car lit by a tedium
of flashing lights)
is sensibly unmoved, but I worry
a wasp will be carried to his mouth
and sting his tongue (his mother
would not be amused; and imagine
the ambulance from up the road
breaks down and I am Googling emergency
tracheotomy, scrabbling around desperately
for the right kind of pen tube, and Joe
running from the kitchen knife black-faced)
the way those Jaspers* crawl
over the cool crust of the enclosed toastie,
while an outrider makes a stab
at landing on my finger.
Soon
apples will ferment and - enterprise -
the insect bar will open, the maggot
bartenders coping with clots of drunk wasps,
stings stabbing at air and apples,
ready to take on all the doubled worlds
in each facet of their matt black eyes.
......................
*We used to call wasps Jaspers when I was at primary school.
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
