Bee Balm

at a bed and breakfast in the Catskills,
lost somewhere between 1985
and a lump of sorrow in the throat,
there it was on the plate:
little edible pink petals,
next to the fresh scrambled eggs:

local cluckers and garden bounty
served by a man who
drifted through time
and opened his house
to the likes of us: two idiots
who later came back with
a baby and then later
had no more laters together

I don’t remember: how did
it taste? The eggs were a little
bit of heaven fluff
whipped and forced into service,
but the chickens seemed happy,
and the garden outlasted
what was promised to be forever

Thank you for reading!