a wood bee buzzes in front
of your face and you flail
across your back stoop
breaking your wife’s clay
flower pots and bird feeders
and tchotchkes from your trips
to Asheville North Carolina
where everyone bites
their tongue and dips their toes
in artisan patchouli oil
and you knock a candle over
as you swipe at the bee
and a dry potted fern
catches fire and starts speaking
to you in riddles about
partisan politics and the smoke
is just thick enough to blind you
so that you step hard
into the wooden post that once
held your pergola, if only
you’d finished the job,
stupid bastard, one foot at a time.