Ann Malaspina

Bob the Pest Guy

 

Never mind the melting glaciers and rising seas.

Ninety-six degrees in April in New Jersey

brings out swarms of wasps and carpenter bees.

 

Bob the pest guy looks tired when he pulls up. 

 

Insects whiz past him like guided missiles,

heading for the purple Rhododendron

but also the holes and crevices 

in our old wood-framed house. 

 

We point to the porch roof, 

then the attic eaves. 

The back roof, too, and the columns

by the front steps. 

 

Bob hoists his backpack,

and aims the sprayer at the attic.

 

Why isn’t he wearing gloves and a mask?

I whisper to my husband.

 

Bob pauses to move a ceramic pot

of carrot seedlings

from under the kitchen window. 

 

Then the sick smell of poison wafts in the air.

The yellow tulips in the yard wither in the heat. 

Nothing lasts.

Everything’s happening too fast.

 

Sure enough. Minutes later, 

Bob points to a black body falling from the eaves

into the dormant branches of the crape myrtle.

A female carpenter bee, he says, satisfied.

 

Packing his truck, he promises to send the bill. 

Oh, and not to worry. We have a 90-day warranty. 

 

By then we could all be dead,

carrots excluded.