Drunk

I walk through the orchard,
bag in hand.
The wasps flutter about,
drunk on the fragrance
and juice
of apples.
They are too drunk to sting me.
Their brains,
which, I imagine,
aren't as sharp as their stingers,
are in a fog.
I make sure to pick the apples
that are whole
and the ones wasps haven't gotten to
yet.
I pick an apple,
and take a bite,
and I am as drunk as the wasps.