The Drop

Wasps are dropping from the lights

in the ceiling of the kitchen. They have

forgotten flight. They fall as if they are

dead, but on the table or the floor they

crawl a little. Wasps dropping. No buzz.

Straight from the light, and down.

There is hardly a hole in the ceiling for

them to come through, but they struggle

and make it. Some crawl over the light

and their shadows loom across the room.

And then drop. Above the lights they

must be queuing. Waiting their turn to

come down. They must know it’s necessary

for them to go, and there’s no information

coming back to them to tell them that

it’s just a drop. There isn’t anything else

for them down here. Just the table or the

floor. It’s no home down here. They’re not

treated well. They get brushed out. Or

stood on. Even the crackle from under

a shoe doesn’t put off the next ones

coming through. Another one drops.

And another. And there’s a sound. If

there’s a piece of paper on the table,

when it drops on to that, it’s nearly a

tap or a clap. That could be a warning.

But it isn’t. They’re still coming.