Hours later I was washing dishes and suddenly the wasp appeared on the kitchen window. I opened the window slowly, and then opened the screen, hoping the wasp would make its way to the outdoors. I've had some luck letting flies out through opened screens, but the wasp moved in the other direction, and then up and behind the partly drawn window shade. I left the screen ajar, and kept an eye on the window as I finished washing the dishes, and the wasp suddenly reappeared on the sill. Instead of heading toward the opening along the edge of the screen, it began crawling down the backsplash.
I didn't want to risk angering it by trying to shoo it toward the opening, and I didn't want it in the house, so I reluctantly fetched the fly swatter. When I got a clear shot at the wasp I gave it a quick swat and it fell onto the sinkboard, wriggling and buzzing, but it appeared to be unable to fly. I picked it up in a paper towel and took it outdoors and dropped it under the peach tree. A few minutes later I heard buzzing in the garage. I didn't go back to check on the spot I had dropped the disabled wasp to see if it was still there. Instead, I decided to pretend that it had recovered sufficiently from the swat to resume its normal life. The entire day has passed, and I still haven't gone back to the peach tree to see if there is a wasp corpse under it.
Sentiment is a terrible thing. It stings.
by Mark Strand
Always so late in the day
In their rumpled clothes, sitting
Around a table lit by a single bulb,
The great forgetters were hard at work.
They tilted their heads to one side, closing their eyes.
Then a house disappeared, and a man in his yard
With all his flowers in a row.
The great forgetters wrinkled their brows.
Then Florida went and San Francisco
Where tugs and barges leave
Small gleaming scars across the Bay.
One of the great forgetters struck a match.
Gone were the harps of beaded lights
That vault the rivers of New York.
Another filled his glass
And that was it for crowds at evening
Under sulfur-yellow streetlamps coming on.
And then afterward Bulgaria was gone, and then Japan.
"Where will it stop?" one of them said.
"Such difficult work, pursuing the fate
Of everything known," said another.
"Down to the last stone," said a third,
"And only the cold zero of perfection
Left for the imagination." And gone
Were North and South America,
And gone as well the moon.
Another yawned, another gazed at the window:
No grass, no trees...
The blaze of promise everywhere.