Beekeepers

It must be the smell of our shampoo

That lures them in for honey. They come to us to

Die, finishing the busy pilgrimage

Surrounded by the scent of accomplishment

Thrusting their stricken toes to us, waiting

For applause. They have always come to

Us to die, for the last thrill of the flight 

Up the top storey, clinging to the stubs

Left for the last ride like a child before closing hours

With a lifetime’s worth of excitement and

Exhaustion and a yellow balloon. They fall asleep

And fall apart like dust and wait in the corners.

Silently the beekeeper for the day 

Sweeps them up so they are not alone 

When they come to die.