A phone rattles against the plastic seat
enclosed, poorly in your jean pocket.
In the tree outside the classroom, a nest lies in wait.
The bumblebees hum quietly, and dance beyond themselves.
Detecting, in subtlety, a regular vibration.
When will that drone return?
What is the meaning of such an elaborate pattern?
Is this a sign of damp wings or a sign of pollen?
You’re phone sees through its waggle dance.
Fed up, those curious fly out to see.
Striped jumpers swarm, and mob your lecture,
They will find your metal bee.