He doesn’t speed up for
street signs. Not ever. He’s
a pedestrian crossing
before an impatient line of
cars, their drivers with
feet twitching, eager to
be done with the “in
between” time after a task
has been accomplished but
before the entertainment or
the friend or the dinner has
been reached, worthless-
seeming breathing
happening without an
official job.
Well,
okay, living
is a job, but it rarely
counts unless we’re
considered productive.
Perhaps
he is reminding them that
being is productive. Caring
about the unhappy person
bustling so briskly with
sadness falling like a mist all
around her and simply
sending a kind thought
is productive. Thinking about
words like bees as they swarm
in short clusters and separate,
travelling for miles before
returning home
is productive.
He’s an efficiency-
driven man, unless
standard behavior dictates,
and then he becomes the
wild bee on a great journey.
Not Quiet Any More 