I Missed the Moment the Wasp Died

Under the hot Greek Sun I watch a wasp dying.

For a few seconds the wasp seems fine,
swaggering around the sun-drenched patio stone
as if the sun and the stone were afraid if its sting.

Then a violent kick - some invisible trigger
gives the quick-draw garden-bandit a bullet.
It's on is back twitching, legs contracting.

Then flick - it’s on its front and fine,
strutting around as if it hasn't felt a thing.
Proud of its huge, enduring sting.

Then a quick jerk - the wasp's dancing,
a panicking puppet. Death is playing it now.
Then flick - it's on its front and forgetting

The agony that just made its point so small.
I look away - why? Did the sun say something?
Perhaps Death did not want me to see His final act.
 
I look back and there's a corpse:
a withered bag of upturned legs and leathery wings.
I had missed the moment the wasp died.

I feel stung. The wasp got me back for watching.