Pollen, a drop. It all comes together.
That’s what the piccolo man said. On the steps of the old library, closed up with asbestos and no running water. A rotting nod back to 1968, which is also when the piccolo man was born. Maybe that will be important, though it isn’t now.
The honeybees turn the pollen of all the different flowers into one, unified substance. A drop in the ocean both is and isn’t a drop.
His lunchtime sermons could gather a small crowd given the right conditions. The right conditions: warm sun and a cool breeze from the lake, university in session, lunch specials from the carts on the square, no live music on State and Washington. Aware of these conditions, the piccolo man prepared most carefully for Tuesdays in September, October, April and May. On these days, he also wore his yellow tweed jacket, even when the early September sun reached 105 degrees.
Everything is the pollen. Everything is the drop.
Who are the honeybees?
The piccolo man sometimes made me believe in god. But Tuesdays were six days in between, and in all that meantime god would be replaced with herbal tea or marijuana in Alix's room. But this time, God as honeybees and the tide. I couldn’t get it off my fingers.
I didn’t like to look at the piccolo man directly, or speak to him before, after, or during his talks. It was best to avoid his attention altogether, because he had bad habits. (I was there when the members of the House banded together to get him off the property. I hung toward the back and hoped he would not recognize my face.)
Wednesday night I was still consumed by thoughts of the honeybees. I lay in my bed and watched the moths bouncing off the ceiling light. Through the dust on my window screen I could see the sailboats coming back in. Who are the honeybees? Yes, who are the honeybees? I would have to speak to the piccolo man.
