A hornet’s nest
in the eaves of the old brownstone
was a conversation piece
long after the bees, and he, were gone.
Bees, hornets, it hardly matters,
There is little difference
in the sting.
Sometimes she loved him,
Sometimes she hated him.
She was glad there were no children.
When he came home,
it broke the routine, both the loving
and the hating. When he left
she blamed it on the lawn,
Nothing would grow there
but the old catalpa tree, Even it
seemed to hate the barren landscape,
In a last ditch effort to be free,
its roots broke the bricks
of the sidewalk. The city sued her
and she paid the fine,
but she refused to take the tree down,
Its roots were poison,
its blooms a nuisance,
but they were the only flowers
that he ever gave her.