Solitude is a bee keeper.
A beekeeper who drinks
too much. He rises
at dawn, but it
doesn't matter, he still
drinks too much.
Even the bees admonish him
saying "Mr. Beekeeper, Bob,
you drink too much." Or so he
imagines them admonishing,
in his delirium.
But does it stop him?
of course not: he is their
keeper! And perhaps
he doesn't drink too
much; perhaps it is just
something he imagines
in his delirium. Oh,
to return to the days
of the ancient Roman
Empire, and to keep
bees there, who spoke
so very little, and
admonished even less
A LITTLE GIRL HUGS THE KINDLY BICYCLE OWNER
She tries the blue bicycle. Not so good. Then the red one.
Not what she had hoped for. Then the yellow. No, somehow,
yellow is worse: than the red, than the blue, than the green.
She hasn’t tried the green bicycle yet. But soon enough,
as the reader already knows, it will join the ranks of the blue,
the red, the yellow, and perhaps, if they ever decide to make
one, the orange. “Have I told you that we have
One pink bicycle left?” the kindly bicycle owner–with the
jolly laugh and the brown pants and the twinkle in his–
well, somewhere he has a twinkle–said, to the little girl, she
She tried to contain her joy, which is hard to do when you
are a hugging little girl. But she did, and she tried
the pink bicycle. Woosh here, wheee there, and so on.
Better than blue, better than red, then yellow, someday than
orange, like the sun, better than orange, unless the sun is pink.
If you want to know what happened next, you must read
the title of this poem, and then stop.