In the drivers’ break room someone took down the lace curtains
and suddenly the place fell quiet. Like in an infected hive,
the drones took out filtered cigarettes,
the queen inhales oxygen, bending over the receiver.
They must know we’re there; it’s dark on the bus
and we can barely see each other,
like at the movies. One of them—ours!—suddenly reaches for the sweatshirt
hanging on the peg. Who lights the tall fires in the orchards?