Hungry Carpenter bees

swarm outside my window

like a squadron of helicopters,

licking their chops for a chance

to bore into the seasoned timbers

of my 120 year old house.

I shut all the windows

and won’t let them in

unless they promise to share

some of their golden honey

that tastes like peanut butter.

When all I hear is a nasty buzz,

I remember what to do from ads

of my childhood, and yell at the top

of my lungs:

Quick, Henry, the Flit!