9 to 5 just to stay alive ,

a Queen Bee in a hive of one,

palms calloused from wear, sweat gels down hair,

tear ducts dried from the Louisana sun.

 

Dreams larger than life, 

full American, whistle whetted in dishwater,

teeth cut on hope, lint stuck in throat,

efforts don't  always get cannon fodder.

 

A will sustained

though through webbed panes

is one that makes its way,

ideals to be tested, strength yet unbested,

she failed no one that day.

 

She kept polish for her tools, played by the rules,

yet the rug scrambled from her feet,

away it moved,

all red, white, and blue, shrieking

"I'd rather a frog touch me!"

And so it was, for the floor was cold

and she possessed no socks,

hopped, she did, the Queen Bee with flippers,

towards the throne in which her name was carved,

took her seat, got her keep,

grinning with dead flies on her breath,

a swell ending for many, bellies full off of plenty,

but somehow

 

we bees are outside, still quite starved.