In Places Where There Isn’t

In places where there’s not a buzzing bee,
that houses artificial sweeteners tweaked,
I leave immediately, head to lavender,
rosemary bushes blooming, wooing wings,
bees coming out in droves, not where it’s ice
cold, plastic-packaged meat is left to freeze.
Amusing, blooming isn’t posting notices,
that “Here’s my nectar, first come, foremost serve,
thy will be done, to work yourselves to sweet.”
The bees, their honeyed penitentiary,
whose sweetness isn’t cryptic, nowhere near
corrupted, corporate economy.
In places where the picket fences need
going over, another generation has
unpacked their stuff, some pointing fingers, some
ready to repair, whether weathered wood,
or marriages whose rent’s way-overdue.
White painted pickets leaning over left
or leaning right in random patterns much
like rain on windowpanes that dry to streaks
working couples have little time to wipe.
Perhaps they’ll start from scratch and pull
every stake out, erect a wire meshing lined
with rows of barbwire, keeping wired brains
from even contemplating entering.