The drone of bees (of drones?) and drivers

rolling along asphalt on rubber

talking on phones to one another, the theater

of the world's doings at my doorstep,

seems today some serialized soap,

a story that spirals a drain or orbits

a weighty center without winning it.

A songbird sings from the wire

then quits it, the line it plucked

playing some low tone it's deaf to.