Drones mate then they die. There is a familiar simplicity
in such recognition. Sounds of men echo up from below,
in the narrow alley between buildings. Some speculate that
worker bees mistake a drone’s singularity for laziness. Scouts don’t seem
to care, too busy locating new hives, swarming in
football shapes on the hidden undersides of park benches,
in the dark cavities
of ancient, rotten trees. I recognize what those men are doing.
They’re dragging the waste bins from some distant fence line toward the street.
Fifty thousand bees comprise a colony,
often sixty. You describe what happens after
a queen dies, aimless panic, spreading rampant as the hive
cedes its purpose. We too employ a naïve definition of service.
Today is Thursday, trash day. The men below
are trash men, snippets of bawdy talk carrying me
back to autumn 1996, my apartment perched above a busy
footpath where transients passed, and those weekly trash men
visited early on Tuesday morning,
unfortunate timing.
In those days, I dedicated songs at a radio station on Monday nights.
A cat hops in your lap. She’s been flirting
with this since I arrived. The circumference of her affection
seems to orbit wherever you sit,
half full coffee cup in hand, newspaper folded. “A colony of bees
starts out with more than
a single queen,” you say. “Once one is chosen, however,
they destroy all the others.” I think to ask you, how?
I do not.
The cat’s tail swishes to and fro. The men have gone now,
moved to the next apartment complex. Silence becomes disorienting.
The cat faces left and then right before placing one forepaw
on each knee facing me. I can hear her trill.
Hers is the only sound above the damp silence. And in that silence,
I remember, I love the mornings you wear purple,
royal tone, contrast to the milky whites of your flesh.
Drones perform no other task, waiting around for that fateful moment.
“I’m sorry,” you say, severing our natural selection of silence. “Can I pour you
a glass of water?” I nod, gratefully,
yes, you can.