There is a beehive rotting somewhere under
the Colosseum. Resident hornets come out
sometimes in the summer, and they are furious
and they are starving. When it is sweltering
hot and the streets are lined with seventeen
different versions of the same cart selling
Coke and lemonade to the tourist whose wallet
was just stolen twenty minutes ago and they haven’t
noticed, the bees crawl into people’s ears
and into their Burberry handbags and every stolen
thing, and they sting and they bite and your skin
is like the inside of a blood orange and it’s just
nature. Some people never go to Rome.
Some people only hear about it from
Travel and Leisure and some people
never go back. Some people visit
the Colosseum and send a postcard
back to their friends: Having an amazing
time, wish you were here.