Not Even A Flower Poem by royness ( ' ' )

My room holds no nectar,
not even a flower -
we are far from the gardens up here.

Opposite, the offices have
bars across the windows -
or maybe blinds, I cannot quite

tell. The lines divide pale faces
into sections. I think
they have noticed me watching.

Sometimes, they force their heads
through the bars,
stand on chairs, lunge

against the glass -
but the walls of this room are thick
and invisible,

the air is cloying,
saccharine –
not even the bees can stand it.

They come here seeking honey,
Drift in
and die by my window.

This is one spent his only sting
to kill his own reflection. Dead,
he lies, and fat as a furball.

I curse him for not stinging me.
I press my fingers
over his wings, lift his

body
from the sill -
I throw him to the wind.

The neighbours knock on the walls.
I turn up the music, knock back
and wait on an answer.

The man in the glass is watching me again.
I will drive a knife right into his eye –
He will cry out, he will bleed honey.

It is two in the morning,
dear neighbour -
I am calling your bluff.