The Park on Sunday

Bees rise and fall
like carnival heads,
locomoting this ocean
of ugly clover flowers,
these droning Apoideans.

I rest on my island
of shade and green
grass.

There are others
in the park this Sunday—
throwing baseballs,
kicking soccer at a net,
bouncing screaming babies

on one knee,
as if sea sick
is better.

With no paper or pen
I am here only reading,
taking in a short
story before a novel
is begun.

But mostly I am watching
the bees dart up into
the air and down into
the clover, wondering
if I will remember this
on Monday.