The day the exterminator came
to get rid of all the yellowjackets
he asked if he could leave
his feet out on the porch, his skin
folded neatly over the railing,
his hair in a wispy pile.
He requested a saucer for his eyes,
another for his lips and tongue;
he stacked his bones in order in the corner
and sneaked off through the backyard.
The bees knew something was up:
they were buzzing crazily,
circling the garage; they were
trembling in their fuzzy bodies.