Service

Once, in the grey parking lot
Behind the white cinderblocks
Of a small, squat Baptist church

Children were playing a game
Through a long summer evening
After the final sermon

Of the week, chasing a ball
That flew into the dark hedge
Planted along the church walls.

One small boy reached for the ball
In the hedge confidently
But felt a sudden sharp pain

On the inside of his wrist.
He yanked out his hand, puzzled.
The burning only got worse

As he stared for a moment,
Half uncomprehendingly,
At the fuzzy ball of black

And gold fixed onto his skin.
Then the bumblebee rolled off
And fell to the pavement, dead.