by Greg Grant
I heard on the radio
The Reds game was delayed
By a swarm of bees.
I imagine myself a bee.
My buddies and I,
We're out for a Sunday swarm.
The sun is shining--
It feels warm on my back.
We cruise in the tunnel
And there it is!
A lush, green field.
Lunch!
We swarm toward the field
It looks like grass,
But it doesn't smell like grass.
It's not grass.
We buzz for a while.
We look for clover.
There is none.
We leave the way we came.