Table set, places to sit.
Guests arrive, barbie lit.
Then the wasps swing by,
uninvited.
A flurry for covers, cans of spray,
furtive eating, looking each way,
for the wasps are here,
despite it.
Yet there’s water to drink, food to eat,
more than enough. We are replete,
though the wasps hang round,
delighted.
Praise for our table, cleared of its scraps.
Thanks for our friends, as we now relax,
now the buzzing wasps
are quieted.
© Copyright Ellen Carr 2015
Postbox Poetry 
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