Green Honey

one lonely island,
minus Andy Samberg, is
on the graveyard shift,
the express lane at the far
end by all the impulse merch

the spark owns sixfold
symmetry, a hexagon
minus all the sides,
a sigil the employees
are to worship each long day

the floor is quiet,
silent as a haunted hill,
almost a graveyard
on a typical Monday
night, hence the walking dead shift

the women's blouses
hang like dead ghosts awaiting
the right customer
to say that's cute and buy it
for the overstuffed closet

tumbleweeds could roll
across the action
alleys by the powerful
air-conditioning units
overhead, blowing loudly

the sights are so strange,
the co-workers are
their own lonely islands, bees
working themselves away so
they get their share of honey

and at the far end
all by his lonesome
is the cashier poet with
his pen counting syllables
and pushing yellow buttons

the spark may inspire
them to work and him to write
but its just a star
with the same number of points
and color used by David

we are prisoners,
forcibly choosing this place
as our final place
to rest, a cemetery
to play the last matching game

and the manager
with the black palm pilot comes
to close out the till,
because the second hour nears
and he has his green honey

one lonely island
no more and no longer, he
becomes a free man,
a parolee, a slave to
nothing but love and his girls