Queen Daisy of the third district honeycomb
sits upon her throne of amber studded sap,
twiddling her thumbs and keeping her
five beady eyes fixed on the slaves in her factory.
Everyone has jobs to do,
the busy season upon them.
Her gaze makes its way to a lowly worker,
loaded down with marigold fuzz, struggling
to keep flight. A dog had tried to eat him.
His wings are wet with sweat and slobber
as he tries to make his way to his station,
swiftly, and unnoticed.
A single bead escapes from his
Bushy, black, eyebrow.
His wings give way, his legs crumbling,
The pollen floating through the cracks of the combs
back into the breezy April air.
And the Queen grips the arms of her chair,
Her face curdling with crimson anger.
He gulps when the guards come for him
as he prepares to be swatted up
on the wall behind the throne.
It happens so fast, the crunch of his wings,
his buzzer echoing one last cry of despair,
his exoskeleton on display
for all bees to see.