I’ve tilled my yard.
Like my brothers in the days of yore.
Except I rented my tiller from Home Depot.
That, and my tiller runs on unleaded gasoline.
Nonetheless the days of yore:
Hours and hours passed as I tilled;
My thoughts springing from bridges to tunnels.
From the bold story of a dead woman,
To the term used to define
Two different points of time
Running at the same moment.
My cat meows,
but fuck him.
I have bigger stories to tell,
Stories to share:
There are so many of you
I haven’t had coffee with.
What do I have to do?
Please don’t let me repeat my life.
I beg you.
I beg them.
I am begging the bee that burst
From the ground I recently tilled
To quit eyeing me in that hovering way.
My god you’re big.
You’re like a fox with wings.
You beastly, hairy, erratic, thing.
(We are so much alike it’s absurd.)
The one difference…
You are preventing me from completing my job today,
And I am destroying your home.
Bee 1 Zafir 0
Your home is completely intact
Because I don’t want to kill you,
And I found out (like in the days of yore)
That if you sting me (Google)
You don’t die.
Also, I found out that there could be 100 to a 150 of you in the ground.
That is a lot of you.
That’s not just an outnumbering.
That’s my throat closing.
Oh, bee. Oh, bee; will you do that to me?
That is the terrain outside my window, and I wish to make one of those cute do-it-yourself herb gardens you see on Facebook in that silent video until you click on it then there’s lame music, and quick editing, jump cuts: that start out really lame and become a unique three tier Basil, Thyme, and Mint garden.
I need this garden, bee.
You feel me?