Bees

The guy originally from Chicago phones from the driveway

to say he’s here to get rid of those black-bodied whirligigs

whose wings beat the air a gazillion times per second

in defiance of both the laws of aerodynamics and gravity.

South Florida’s rife with tales of plunder and forfeiture,

and somehow the little air pirates insinuate themselves

into the eaves as a consequence of imperfect attention,

mine, but what do I care so long as they don’t take over?

I’m one man, out of place before a backdrop of flowers

and honey-colored beaches, who has nowhere else to go.

Nothing but respect for the industriousness of insects

making an inventory of the rooflines of communities

with place names reflecting the guilty weave of history

and hope that never stops being its own undertow.

In fact, I wish my words worked like carpenter bees,

first light to dusk, answering a clear morning of need

to make the unruly world over just so and in miniature.

And who wouldn’t like to be a story of gadding about

as a spinning swarm about to colonize here and there

in the service of the inscrutable wisdom of hauling ass

to somewhere you can stay put come fire or high water?

It’s always been about competition. Bees are bad news,

and I’m no Einstein but I’m smart enough to recognize

a threat when I see it—I show the guy where to spray.

I’d rather not be part of this or the easy metaphor it is

for exterminations taking place in the name of God

or all things good in the century of the end of oil.

I get out of the way and let a professional do his job.

I write him a check when the killing’s good and done.

I make a joke: This is why I exist, to write checks.

I get out a broom and move the dead around some.

I sweep sand until I remember that it cleans itself.