Saturday Morning

Fat old bee
you stupid thing
about the size of a golfball
sat on the mat
by the backdoor
waiting to be let out
and die

You furry, dopey thing
I have to carry you
to the garden
on a takeaway menu
Junk mail

I've seen you all winter
tucking into the pollen
winter-flowering honeysuckle
and now that it's nearly April
and warm
you go and kick the bucket
Oh well

You drop off the menu
and hide in the undergrowth
slash weeds

Later, I'm outside having a fag
and there's a new bee
maybe your son or daughter

Sometimes I wish I'd had children

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