I feel the need to apologize

to the bugs I kill in the house:

“Sorry, guy,” ruefully,

to the silverfish I squish,

his softness a smear

on my mint green wall.

 

Just days ago, I watched

a minute ant colony

industriously doom itself

in the trap by my desk,

amber flecks trundling

their poisonous lodes

through the tiniest crack.

Admittedly,

they crawled up my leg

each time I put down my foot,

so something had to be done.

 

Not to mention the handsome,

impossible bumble bees

nesting just over the door.

The landlord sprayed,

but I’m guilty by association.

This morning a straggler lay

on the step, triangle wings

like a downed jet,

his body–fuzz

and shiny blackness.