He Probably Would Have Written A Different Poem

In class, you leaned over to me, showed me your

hand, and said, "There's a bug on me." And as I watched

your small, green, plump visitor, all I could think

was "And?"

Kill it.

Blow it away.

Cock your finger and

flick it. But

you just sat there and looked at it, as if there

were a great weight on your shoulders, as if

I had severely misrepresented the situation. Maybe

you were contemplating something larger

than myself, something more cosmic than I ever could

grasp. Or maybe not, I thought, as I watched you

spit a puff of perfect air at that little green stranger,

pushing him from the precipice of the back of your

hand and into the great beyond.