My pocket size digital camera
points up and towards a dark gray
palm tree pattern
stenciled and embedded
as nature’s artifact
when a breezy summer bee
sneaks to land upon a naked arm
its dinky stinger spears my elbow
as I sit silent for a bit nonplussed
by this apparent harm,
then squelch a wince and yelp
as hurt enters me unawares,
"Oh shit I'm taken by surprise attack!"
I’m disarmed by the day
of course and her warmly soft
green eyes
(but just this once I think)
as I pinch and squeeze my skin
to take the thin blade out.
Later as we stroll along the park’s
inviting Sunday path
I tell her of the music from a far-off
Summer by the rocking band
whose name I love to say
whether immersed in
swollen squawking pain
or honeyed grinning pleasure,
whose music attacked and coaxed
the hidden teenage soul,
burrowed deep to bring forth real
feeling as it rocked and rolled:
‘BEE BUMBLE AND THE STINGERS’.
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