Even the yellowjackets are confused. The mosquitos, the wasps & the bees all in a tizzy.
Say brotha it must be August, but I don’t hear the cicadas hollering with those big ass lungs. What the fuck is happnin’?
There ain’t a flower to steal or skin to bite into. Just yesterday sweat pooled above my lip in the middle of this hot ass winter.
I don’t know what’s going on and the yellowjacket who decided to use my apartment as hospice, don’t either. He asked to bum a cig. I told him I don’t smoke, and he let out of a string of obscenities which you do when you’re dying. I offered him leftover lentils.
He looked up at me slow.
Sweet cakes, you’ll never stop being confused ‘cause small patches change just as quickly as the world does.
I ask him how he knew much about the restofthaworld.
Television.
I’ve heard your prayers at night. Begging. Bargaining. Answers don’t really do much. Might I suggest not looking for them. Just—
& and the damn ministering yellowjacket croaked and I sucked his corpse up into the vacuum and finished the lentils.