She looks good all gussied up

fluttering seductively, piping and tooting,

combing her hair as she sedately waits

on her throne for a favorite drone.

Her emerald green eyes mesmerize

lines of young bees with amorous ideas

they’re not yet ready to consummate

with this promiscuous lady.

Frenzied with the heat of youth they

don’t have to see her bare waggle dance

or succumb to her odorant receptors,

or swill of royal jelly to want to fly

in her direction.

All she has to do to snag 2000 mates is

lower one fine shoulder showing supple

skin soft as new-spun silk for them

to discover quivering filaments

that can hold ecstatic moments

encapsulated in a cushioned warp of time.

When workers see her sensual silhouette,

slender as a mermaid’s backside,

they’re consumed with envy, hating their

bodies hidden in shapeless housecoats

as they slave away each day to keep

the hive in order.

Like undocumented domestic workers

they keep their feelings to themselves.

The only thing that keeps them going

is knowing a day will soon arrive

for the hive to survive they must get busy

balling the queen, gathering around her

so she can’t breathe, smothering her

to death. When asked why they perform

this task without apparent remorse, they

reply: “because it is necessary.”