The Saddest Bee

One of the saddest things
glued to memory
was watching a bee
with a busted wing
crawling slowly across the floor
as I waited in line to pick up mail
from Poste Restante  
in a suburb of Paris
 
The August heat
made any movement a chore
but the bee knew
what bees must do
and was hard wired
determined to fly
 
He would stare upwards
at the whirring blades of the ceiling fan
searching for inspiration
or maybe with revenge
at the back of his mind
before launching himself
to an inch off the ground
then landing on his back again
with an almighty effort required
to get upright
before resuming attempts to fly
 
He never gave in
try after impossible try
pauses for rest growing longer
as he grew weaker every time
 
I was fourth in the line
when a well heeled madame
in a bright orange dress
stormed to the front waving her arms
protesting about something
I couldn't make out
inadvertently crushing the bee
with a shiny patent leather shoe
 
She never realized
the mercy her foot delivered
or that I'd have liked to pick him up
to set him outside to die
but it was too late now
and when I got to ask for my letters
nothing had arrived