The Yellowjacket

I meant no harm.
Only the tip of my middle finger -
blind and round
and monstrously bigger than
your yellow, fast little body in its fierce rugby jersey -
alerted to a small tickle, made a lazy tour of the back of my collar
and encountered you,
dutifully inspecting the pale expanse of my neck
in fruitless pursuit of the possibilities implied by my misleading perfume,
baffled but industrious.
Stung,
you zipped off, leaving an angry souvenir
in my dumb digit. I meant no harm,
but then again, neither had you
and for a moment (how it hurt!)
for a moment you were the more powerful.