Sweet as Sugar
Honey bees seem to know where they are going.
They fly that nice straight path.
Directly to the brightest flower.
Mostly ignoring large humanoids
They skirt me at 20 mph with ease and poise.
Then there is the
How this beastie got his or her name
I don’t know.
But a new one is required.
Such as Wild Fly, Mean Buzzer, or Biter with no Cause
They bumble wildly about.
Desperately grasping at human, tree twig
Dog, cat, flower, fruit, meat, bread.
Sometimes dropping from the sky
With a heavy mud brick load
At my feet.
Other times, not so lucky
Sometimes under my feet.
Or sliding between sandal and sole.
Slamming with no grace up under
Pant leg. Shirt sleeve.
Sneaking into pop cans and snapping into the unsuspecting mouth.
No honey here.
No life goals, just biting the hand (or whatever) that feeds.
And like skeeters and hoppers, just making a zillion more, in cavernous nests.
Who can tell me what the specific life goals are for a wasp?
I would help out,
if I could go a summer month without being stung.
It frightens me a little that people follow these classes of stingers.
Some clear on where they are, and where they want to be.
These buzz it at that low tone, just to let us know, they are there
Interfere at your peril.
Well, I might admit, I belong to the class of the Yellow Jacket.
I flail around, without a goal, even in WalMart.
I have bounced from town to town, job to job
Lucky to even have one in most economic times.
Slamming into people, bullying them with my ruckus.
Frightening and sending them fleeing with a terrified face.
How I hate the yellow jacket.
How I am one.