Come-Hither Honeycomb. Erin Belieu

I supply

      the tippy box, too?

      Notch the stick on which

      to prop it?

      Didn’t I fumble the clove hitch

      for the rope?

      Leave the trip lying obvious

      in the tall, buggy grass?

      Ever it was.

      Duh.

      Be the mat,

      and the left foot finds you welcome.

      Though there’s always a subject, a himor

      herself. But to name it

      calls it down, like Satan

      or the IRS.

      It must be swell,

      to have both deed and

      the entitlement, for leaners who hold our lien,

      consumers who consume like

      red tide ripping through a coastal lake.

      Who find themselves so very well

      when gazing in that kiddie pool, or any

      skinny inch of water.

      That guy, remember? How tell this tale

      without him? A story

      so hoary, his name’s Pre-Greek.

      What brought Narcissus down?

      A spotty case

      of the disdains, I think,

      a one-man performance

      wherein the actor hates his audience.