sometimes there’s a buzz,
a drone that’s inescapable.
you spend all afternoon walking
around the festival, maybe eating
a turkey leg or some kettle corn,
and you find that you’re surrounded,

swatting absently, hoping for a clear
thought or the ability to offer your
attention elsewhere,
you beg forgiveness of your wife
and children.

other times,
contented to sit in
the middle of the swarm,
chewing the comb,
squishing its warm wax between
teeth, and letting that honey slide
all the way onto the page.

sometimes they sting,
with sharp memory and a
willingness to sacrifice some
of your solace, serenity, or
sanity for the chance to buzz
free.

and when found swollen
with venom or fat and sticky
with honey and wax,
a night’s sleep
and a poem or two
is your reward for sparing
the hive.

the colony buzzes and swarms,
you can feel them, hear them.
they surround, confound,
the words, like bees, abound.

and you must feast again.

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications