The bee boards the crowded bus. Pulls out her worn copy of Emily Dickinson, plunges into its nectar.
She prefers her version of her favorite poem. In tiny careful writing, she changed all the he’s to she’s.
Her Feet are shod with Gauze –
Her Helmet, is of gold…
Closing her eyes, she inhales it like incense. For a moment, she forgets the huge steel and glass hive waiting to receive her. The 10-hour shift of thorax-wracking toil, making honey-colored clothing for the rich. The bleary journey home. The sting of arriving too late to put her striped-pajama-wearing brood to bed.