The Last Bee


Buzzing along
He happens upon
an autumn-tinged
Worn-petal cosmo

Its fading fuchsia
One of the few
enchantments of the year

His limbs are stiffer
They do not freely dangle
Like the honey-drunk
Furry fat bumbles
Afloat in July

But he pays no mind
to his tired and comby legs;
His antennae meander slowly
Arbitrary, lethargic proddings
Into a dying

He does not notice
that he is the last of his generation
The only one left,
Buzzing about
At his task

Just another day at work

Woefully ignorant
of the true severity
of his loneliness


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