A rusty, temperamental lock, Tucked up within its cage. I’ll do it blind. It’s grand, it’s grand. Take it slow and earn that wage. Click, don’t lose those keys now, boy. Same pocket as the nest. Unfurl it. Cold beneath the shirt. All set up. Now to do your best. Beneath the beating August sun, A stench assaults this place. Battered bins of bottled piss. Sun-baked bags of rotting waste. Assess the damage. Empties? Two. The rest await the dig. Seems only one has tipped this time. At least the spill is not that big. Pull up an empty, gloves equipped. Begin the beggar’s haul. Delight the nose with novel scents Of poorly-aging alcohol. Dislodge a fucker from its feast. And swat the prick away. Then it returns with feverish friends Reclaiming shattered Tanqueray. A truce, they do necessitate Their terms have been declared. So, fish for something saccharine, A liquid orchard to be shared. A blanching, boiling, black bin lid, Will host these peaceful talks. The straggling droplets sanctify; Sweet ambrosia of the gods. With this libation I ascend Quite inadvertently. I only wanted peaceful work But wasps now worship me.
A Little Bit about the Poem
Some of the better imagery I've put in a poem, I like to think. It came at the consequence of a clunky rhythm, but these are the sacrifices you make as you hone your craft.
The name, and the whole poem really, came about when something prompted me to check what 'wasp' was in Irish. I found my answer in 'foiche.' Next to it, I saw that when 'Dé' is tacked onto the end, it means 'Act of God'.
This put me in mind of the brief summer where I offered to look after the bins at the bar I worked in every Monday morning. You see, some companies pay you to send their bottles back to them, at least the ones that don't smash, so you have to dig through them before collection. Apropos of nothing, stop getting sick in bottle bins.
Anyway, via this job and through necessity, I overcame a long-standing fear of wasps. Now, I need only befriend jellyfish, and I'll be unstoppable.
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