My wife tells me there are no more bees.
My wife tells me the cell phones have killed all the bees.
I want to stick my head into a patch of daffodils
and do whatever the bees do
to pollinate the earth.
I want to buzz around,
be the king bee,
the fat bastard with all the yellow stripes and octagon eyes.
When I ask God to make me a bee,
he says, “You think one bee
can change the entire demise of human existence
all by itself?”
I scream at him in that browning seersucker suit,
“Damn right you rusty old sonofabitch. Now, work your magic.”
He says, “What are you gonna do for me?”
I say, “I’m gonna honey up the trees, the lakes,
the magic wands of industry
that have lost the sweet.”
“No,” he says, “I’m talking sacrifice.”
When he laughs I run outside in my J.Crew shorts and kill my brother
with a fork.
“You happy now?”
And he is.
And he makes me a bee,
the king buzzard
and I buzz all night long
and all morning long
and all summer back into spring
so that by December
I have saved the planet
and earned the right to tell you
to get off your cell
so I can sit on my fat ass for fifteen minutes
and lament for my brother
who I did not bury.