Catching Bees

by Armand Garnet Ruffo

In the yard of the haunted house, uncle broken–man
yells. His dark head hanging out the window.
I look up but try to ignore him.

Behind hedges the height of trees, entwined in a blaze
of yellow petals. Those of us brave enough
catch bees on sunny Saturdays,

snap jar lids over them, lock them behind glass,
hold their sting to our ears.
Some tire of the game

and let their captives loose, drop their jars and run.
Others forget or neglect and let
the busy sounds melt

inside behind the glass while others maliciously blow
smoke into the punctured lid,
tranquilize the buzzing cargo.

Everybody runs past the broken window, making fun
of the broken man who calls me out by name
and says we are the same.