There are two lurking wasps, hanging suspiciously
around entrance front to the bee hive gum tree.
Braver than me,
those blue-black quivery, antennae-d opportunists.
They go within life-risking inches
of bottle-necked bee hole, brown-honey-smeared -
for the unremitting workers there
carry out sweetness as they commando-crawl
from tightly-tunnelled, termite-chewed hole.
I am a safe five feet away, watching,
mind you, bees know me and I doubt they'd sting,
I am the Fruiterer, Flora of the Hoard,
still, five feet is as close as even I'd hazard.
Those wasps have a look of piracy
with their banditos-bandanna-thoraxes, suspiciously stripey
and though I lean in with both mind and body,
bringing sunburned nose further two feet in,
I can't precisely determine purpose
and I will not quest my snoz, any closer.
Oh, they so do have the arrogant nonchalance
of ark raiders
and casual skater's elegance
of purse-snatchers
but the bees seem alert, not particularly alarmed
and my much-needed walk
has scarcely begun.