I was read­ing a poet
who felt sor­ry
for a bee
he had killed
I nev­er met him
to ask him
if he ever repent­ed
for what he had done
one June after­noon
just before a storm
I was on the phone
when a bee flew into the room
buzzing
and bounc­ing off the glass
from time to time
with­out hang­ing up
I grabbed a notepad
and on sec­ond try
plas­tered it against the win­dow­pane
then from the kitchen
I took a nap­kin
col­lect­ed the bee
wiped the stains
off the glass
crum­pled it all into a ball
and threw it in the trash can
I fin­ished my con­ver­sa­tion
sat in an arm­chair
and looked out the win­dow
I was think­ing about the poet
who wrote the poem
about a bee
dart­ing around his face
as he read the news­pa­per
and the cre­ative surge
he must have felt
then.
 

 

Oduz­i­man­je

 

Čitao sam pes­ni­ka
koji je žalio
za pčelom
koju je ubio

nisam ga nika­da sreo
da bih ga upi­tao
da li se ikad poka­jao
zbog toga što je uradio

u jun­sko posle­podne
neš­to pred pljusak
dok sam raz­go­varao tele­fonom
pčela je uletela u sobu
zujala je
povre­meno se odbi­ja­jući
o prozor

ne preki­da­jući vezu
doh­va­tio sam notes
i iz dru­gog pokuša­ja
zale­pio je za staklo

onda sam iz kuhin­je
uzeo sal­ve­tu
obrisao mrlju
poku­pio mrtvu pčelu
i bacio je u kan­tu za đubre

završio sam raz­gov­or
seo u fotelju
i gledao oblake
kako posta­ju sve tamniji

mis­lio sam o pes­niku
koji je napisao pes­mu
o pčeli
koja se vrz­mala oko nje­gov­og lica
dok je čitao novine

i u kolikom je
stvar­alačkom zanosu
on bio tada.
 

[print-me]