Often known
as the boy part of the plant,
it seeks to invade our sinuses
and tear stain our eyes
so that we cannot rise softly in the morning.
It saturates our summer winds,
and comes knock knock knocking on our lungs
to force the knotted ropes
that pull tight our leftward arms,
the ropes that close our lips and minds
so that we may breathe not a word.

Clocking out
after the week’s last nine to five,
our celebrations begin
at the working bees club,
the sweet rewards of bartender
are mixed with under table nectar
under cover of coats and wings and twilight.
The logistics of pollen transport
are hard on the body and soul,
relieved only by the company of others
and in the sharing of stories,
of what was once a card held tightly
to the chest and to the heart.

And suddenly
the weight of the working day,
and burdens that once tied down
those of us who sought to fly at great heights,
are lost, let go, seized by royal guard.
The rain, in its anger,
having broken the path of those who
carried too much for their little wings to bear
has slowed to an evening trickle,
the bees now free to roam again
to pollenate the night.

Sitting down
we are on the streets beyond the beach,
this time the dusts of flowers past
are settled between cork and blanks,
where sunlight does not seek to show its face
and the moon is draped in tulle.
The pollen serves a different cause,
a moment passed between friends
as we watch for the four wheels of order
and cry for a single instant of vice,
it is but a single second,
yet one that brings content.