Coronation

A slumber summer midafternoon.
Heat reigned proudly as King
    of the royal garden,
        where regal brilliance had been bartered
        for monotonous shading: gray-green,
like billiard felt smothered by decades of dust.
Even the overripe tomatoes
    and hare-ravished peppers sulked,
lackluster in the shade of stunted stalks.

Here I stumbled upon the lazy barracks.
A legion of dormant bees—
they struggled beneath the drunken fat
    of sweltering absorption:
    Nectar and palm-sweat and sun-blisters.
These knights in mustard armor
careened in drowsy ire, driven
by the hazy vehemence of civil duty.

Uncertain, tired, furious, and lost—
Save the Queen.

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