beehi(a)ve

The San Pellegrino can,

has got all my unanswered questions

sticked on,

mingling with the condensation.

The sun is exploding over my head

yet, the parasol has offered its wooden arm 

an humble protection,

over my auburn curls.

The minutes are speeding all the same,

which day is it,

is the recurrent question.

On a Thursday we clap our hands,

the birds go wild, thinking it’s for them.

Otherwise, where would all the worms be?

I’m dripping sweat and big hopes,

like the carrot cake that didn’t cook

On Wednesay,

or was it Monday?

and my life has become this idle bee

that whispers in my ear

“Wake up!”