Apiary Above the Laundromat

At sunset the laundromat exhales warm cotton breath, and above its humming vents, the hives glow like brass lungs. Traffic combs the avenue with amber teeth, while the first scouts write small circles in the steam.

They return carrying the grammar of vacant lots: clover from a crack beside the bus stop, linden pollen sifted from a courthouse tree, wild thyme clinging to a balcony's broken tile.

Night arrives in blue sheets over satellite dishes. Inside each box, the dark is busy with gold, thousands of wings folding weather into honey, each cell a lantern capped and waiting for winter.

By dawn, jars line the window near lost socks and coins, sun caught in glass, patient as stored music. People leave with clean shirts, with sweetness on their tongues, never seeing the small republic above them singing.