Memorial to a Little Green Bug

He was so small, nameless bug,

when I saw him; lime green against desk white,

confronting the walking world on six legs.

A loose mimic, a beta test of existence

wandering around somewhere so unimportant.

I felt sorry for him. Imagine, I thought.

Imagine having such a short life

and spending it here.

He seemed to like my desk. Maybe

it was cool against his jointed legs;

the closest thing to a skipping stone possible

in the heatwave of Manchester July.

I connected myself to him

through dissonance. I had, I have.

He has not, will not.

Come on, I thought.

Come and see the world in the only way you can.

A rock from the Grand Canyon.

A snail shell from Llandudno Beach.

An empty clam from Atlantic City.

I'm well travelled, see; at least for someone my age.

I've been to the McDonalds next to the Great Pyramids of Egypt,

been blackout drunk next to the canals of Amsterdam,

argued blue with my sister in the south of France.

I have seen the world and come home smaller for it,

unsure of what I want and with so much time to figure it out.

He, small and green and nameless, had no time

to do any of that. His mother was gone

before he woke, the world a wide maw beyond his grasp.

Of course he took shelter in a warm room;

he did not know what else to do. By the time

his little legs slowed to a stutter,

he was merely hours old.

A quick summary of a life: leaping at dusk,

dead by morning.