Drunken Bee

Across my kitchen floor
I watched a
honeybee as it crawled
at summer holidaying pace.

I tried to save it
on the back page of
a colouring book;
it staggered on quite
trustingly
kept falling off the edge
– I almost heard it
laugh –
I tried again; looked closer
at the pollen clinging
to its old gold fur
its felted limbs
and saw how drunk it was
hiccupping on
the nectar it was born to fetch
ecstatic with the job
it had no choice but to fulfil
not just contented but
elated at its neverending task.

I’d like
an attitude like that.
Pie-eyed at work
reeking of honey
lurch about the place
so dervishly and
unafraid of feet
delirious euphoric
just
beeing.

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