Of Bees and High Grass

A poem by Jeremy Jones

I sat in the grass today, the blades writhing in the wind like hay.

There wasn’t much to see.

Maybe a bee.

But then again I wasn’t really looking…more contemplating.

Wishing the cigarette I was smoking was something really worth toking.

Hand rolled tobaccy.

More than a little Wacky.

My lungs began to bind,

Oh it felt a lot like peace of mind.

The smoke curling around alveoli, giving me the red-eye.

I must have been thinking about you and all the things you do.

You’re here.

You’re there.

You’re everywhere.

You’re the city streets, pounding with rhythmic beats.

You’re the small towns sending out the hounds.

You hate me, you love me.

You do NOT know me.

F*ck your tolerance.

So what of the bee?

What really is he?

A maker of sweet, sweet honey, with a kiss not so funny.