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{ the sweetest bee makes the thickest honey. }
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When I was a young boy of seven, I once threw all of my parents precious china out of our third story window. The smooth satisfaction of broken dinnerware. Neighborhood kids applauded. In the world of these poems, I am assured forgiveness.
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Legendary O'Donovans
Alas!
King of the stairwell, emperor of wires,
a permanent collector of the keys
a passenger for the back of the bar,
beholder of the drooping titles,
ruler by arrangement,
guest by invitation,
honorary chairman by the fireplace.
Everyone else
by appointment;
oh, mighty bee-keeper
of words,
Old Donovan is dead,
lies in a laundry bag by the door.
The house folds its
staircased hard wings.
Seasonal poetry is written,
and all the Donovans
flow back to Cork,
like an unstoppered
bottleful of bees.
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