He was caught and stung on a Wednesday,
in the early afternoon. He was the only one
not to see it coming. His plan was good.
He had an aim. But the sting still hurt.
Now had this been a poem, the shock,
when it came would have carried a purpose:
perhaps even a moral. This shock was odd.
It was unfathomable and strange.
The letter arrived in the afternoon post
looking official, manilla envelope,
frank marks in regular typeface.
Nothing unexpected, like the shock.
The bee hobbled from the ripped paper,
scrambling across the licked flap
on three good legs and broken back.
Shock released the knife, his hand fell.
The office went quiet, watching the bee
lumbering across the shiny desktop
right up to the hand. Fixing the man
he turned slowly letting out the stinging rod.
He did not flinch at the impact of the rod
but he did recoil inside. For he recognised
the bee as the very same, that last Sunday,
he had crushed against the windowpane.