At the top corner of the bedroom window
in the hollow between regular and storm panes
wasps have built a nest. I noticed last week.
Their place measures, already, dozens of papery cells
across. Once in a while I walk by and flick the glass.
Their legs and wings quiver. Then they scatter angrily.
I read of Vespula vulgaris that they’re less aggressive
than their red cousins – yet now I have these paper-makers
trained: when they see my poised finger approach,
they fly and fly at the invisible border that divides us.
I stand and watch them spread, stab past the glass towards
my face behind it: livid, futile. From outside I torment them
for I have no way to kill them without myself being stung –
that is, until the winter does it for me. December alone
will find these flimsy chambers bereft of all their toilers.