An Elegy for the Chronicle

Eyes closed, laying flat

On the grass I hear a bee:

Buzz.

It must be crazily going

To its bulging queen. Salute, report,

Do that crazy wiggle-dance.

If it was not May today,

April instead, January

Then I could sit and write a word

Or two: "The Bee! It Flew

In Perfect Irony …"

I could publish my poem in Transfinite Joy.

Alas, El Chronicle

Has expired!

Breathed its last goodbye!

Exhaled its secret into our ears,

Dripping its final golden tears,

Calling once for pizza before it

Gasped once, sucked air, screamed!

Panicked, crashed, cracked, laughed

Crazed, and cut with painkiller clatter

It quietly took its leave.

So in a state of mourning

I’m wearing black today

And I won’t write about that bee;

I’m experiencing joy

only transfinitely.