the day of the dead wasps
dances down the ballroom timeline—
the day, not the wasps—
legs—the wasps, not the day—
fredheads frolic to & fro,
tired as the next tooth in a shark attack.
always tomorrow.
outside under a palm tree,
I am doing what everyone is doing—
doing our goddamn best,
getting shit done, undoing shit,
sometimes vertical, sometimes horizontal:
everyday is the day of the dead wasps.