Here, With Honey

we're standing in the middle of a sprawling bazaar 

outside central station where worker bees vibrate 

between platform-fields and city-hives 

all with tickets 

with times, and destinations, and plans. yet we have 

no ticket; we have no plan. we have a few tricks, 

a few cells left over from college with their stamps 

of approval. 

we have one million eyes and velcro palms--like beggars 

who greet us, singing on the train with a gouged gaze, 

feeling their way through honeycombed carriages 

with bony ankles

and blossomed hands, until faceless drones toss them

a coin from purses fat with societal honey.

we are no beggars, we're simply 

en route. 

perhaps the only ones willing to acknowledge our own buzz-- 

while they assiduously fly from bed to pot to stair to platform

 to chair--and back again, so that no one sees 

their empty palms. 

we reach that point when were told to fill--the belly, the time, 

the mind itching for senseless purpose that we're headed 

somewhere, ceasing to realize that we're 

already there.