The phone rings incessantly
no one is able to answer
lines have been erased
in the ether inside the line
the buzz-buzz of the princess continues.
Like the yellow jacket settling on the edge
around my glass, investigating
All I can see is my own disrepair
cracks in the wall, peeling paint
boxes piled up to block the sun.
I watch the wasp stepping
intentionally searching for the last drop
the last sweetness of this season.
His footing slips -- all six --
sliding down into the sticky lemonade residue
I think that's what you get when driven by desire.
His angry buzz bounces against glass walls.
My syrup-coated flier now imprisoned
I turn away to survey the house, the packing
but distracted by the wasp, I turn back
see him on the table
meticulously cleaning himself
his own reward for survival.
On this last day of summer, of childhood homes
I walk toward the house to lock the doors
check the windows one last time
and I hear a faint buzzing
carried in the air from far away.