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.