Queen's Pink

Friday evening
droops
from a week's herculean effort.
Workers freed by 5 o'clock
don't looked gladdened.
Trudge. Grudge.
Dangling dreams of respite
mixed with city sirens,
and low-grade self-pity,
suddenly INTERRUPTED
by an outrageous SLAP
from conspiring petals
planted at a bustling corner
to uplift the weary
with beauty and hope.
The worker bee remembered her crown,
adjusted it, while deciding:

"Well, if they can keep their splendor
 in rushing fumes and angry horns,
so can I."