Green Bug

It's crawling up his head so slowly
I'm sure the man feels nothing.
It looks like an aphid on steroids, long and sturdily built.
Judging by the back of his head, the man is aging elegantly,
his hair short and silver.
The bug is fluorescent green -- psychedelic,
in the language of my youth, and probably the man's.

The green bug sets off the silver nicely,
like a carefully chosen hairpin.
The bug has been moving straight up.
Now it veers right. Maybe a particular shaft
has caught its attention.
What will it do when it gets to the man's crown?
Will it bite?

Do I owe it to the man to help him shed the bug?
Should I at least alert him to its presence?
Why do I have this sense of duty?
Because I am walking behind them?

The man is dressed business. Means business.
He walks briskly. I keep pace. He is not the only one over forty in decent shape.

Red light.

I'm right behind them now.
The bug has stopped to rest halfway up the man's head.
Maybe I could tap the man on the shoulder, offer
to help.
Excuse me. There's a green bug in your hair.
Would you like me to flick it off?
I've got experience.
You'll both be fine.

Green light.

The man walks. I walk.
The bug continues its pokey journey up the man's head.
After we cross the street, the man continues straight ahead.
Before turning left, I take a last glance.
The bug has almost reached the man's crown.


By Rona Altrows


Rona Altrows greenifies her world by walking everywhere and by engaging in the act of writing, a form of production that creates few toxic by-products, except on a bad day. Altrows, winner of the 2006 City of Calgary W.O. Mitchell Book Prize for her short story collection A Run On Hose, writes fiction, plays and essays as well as the occasional green poem.