Sidling in,
repping their mostly-appointed
(somewhat trifling) hunting knife
bent at just the right juncture
for the victim’s own reckoning
with justice,
the unwell bowie knife salesman
had just a few more destinations
on the booze cruise they’d set out upon
for the sake of at least trying to relocate
that former spark once unquestioned
[but now highly questionable].
Aw, don’t get all bent out of shape,
Mr. Piece of Paper Man.
I didn’t mean to wrinkle you, honest!
Jeez, quit looking up at me
with that blank expression,
it’s killing me! Death
by a million paper cuts
is to be my fate? I shall instead
jump into an ocean of bees, so
I may avoid such a tedious
and painful end.
I love the bees,
the bees are my friends
now and forever (or at least
until one of our species goes extinct,
which could be any minute now).
They welcome me with open wings
and usher me to their queen,
bragging about the human
they just bagged–at least,
that’s what their elated buzzing
sounds like to me, but I’m no expert
in hive linguistics.
WHARVED 