this Sunday past there were wasps en masse
congregating on the side of my trash can
over a dozen huddled together abuzz
a sacred gospel sung under water pressure meters
offertory chants reverberant within every nest
this quiet shade bequeaths their holy place
where they take the Sabbath daily, languidly
I label myself a pacifist and socialist—someone
without the stomach for war nor its conquistadors
but that trash and can are under my sovereign law
so if I must murder my beliefs, so be it—no threat
of treason will stop my call to pest control