these bees are dead to me

these bees do not
have secret lives,
nor is it sweet
to hear them buzz
about her house,
drilling into the
bare wood of
soffits and sheds,
the lumber unprimed,
at work in
the soft april
sun. she wants
them gone. she
wants them dead. and
as she holds out
her puffed arm,
welted pink and red
from stings, she
aims a can of
insecticide with
an evil grin,
she is tony soprano
holding a gun, and
shaking his head.