The Buzz and Bumble of the Bee
Yesterdayís luck slides off my table
like a wobbly red jelly. Its sweetness
is the slipstream along which you buzz,
ignoring the washing line of whipped cream
as you aim for my jumbled palette of colours.
Hearing your humming I hide inside my clothes
but you are drawn into a painting by numbers.
Iím not your lucky seven, Iím an unlucky thirteen.
Your stripes of disappointment prick me in the ouch!
and I am humbled to the knees as you fly away.
A bad experience is the stinger that comes
and goes on a fuzzy loop, injecting a legacy
sharp enough to cut the jelly from any trifle.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson would
be pleased to hear them