Wasps

I’ve got wasps in the attic
and I’m frightened to go up,
afraid of being dive-bombed
by the past.

Black lines on yellowing paper
lurk in half surrendered boxes,
words that I’m afraid of
hover menacingly.

Best leave it for another time
when cold winds sting me to the core
and the debris of summer
lies scattered all around.

Then no doubt I’ll cop it
and the over-wintering queen
will take me unawares
when I’m alone.

 

 

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