Loneliness of a Sailor in Jersey City

The cities are woven of beeswax,
I see them treacle down the lamp stems.
If the bees are still in the wax, that’s hardly
surprising. The wax is still in the bottle.
So if the bees were all locked in their cities
like ships in a florence flask,
think of all those bees in a jersey,
what a tribulation that might be.
They are making the wax in the bottle,
or stoppered flask, the tapered top
of the hive, to be carried to ball games
in skins. They assign all the sections:
in the upper part of the field is parked
the fleet of bees’ bonnets, like Wacs
packed in their jerseys with red numbers
for ships sailing in the morning.
In the upper part of the jersey is packed
the pigskin, bearing a number
of anatomical seas, hives, and azures.
My ship sails from the seashore.
Oh, God, I must catch that pass
before it puts out to sea.
The hive is a ball of wax
waving at me!