Luca Penne

Green

My green grins across the room: a nasty grin, a grim day, even with the sun. Give me something to quiet my nerves—not this sudden flare, perhaps a green tea, though caffeine often makes me jittery.

Green is not spring; it is murderous and a little yellow in the heart. Green makes me see red. Yes, I envy green and the pleasures it gives. Give me the green, I say, and forget all the talk. Once green touches your fingertips, you can smell it for weeks and no amount of scrubbing can wash it from your skin.

Flutes come back with their slurred green whistles. The green band limps down the block. An SUV explodes green. The country is going green except for coal-burning plants, except for thousands of chimneys piping smoke to the heavens and millions of cars sputtering exhaust at the ozone. Green grins like a grinch, waiting to sucker another sucker.

Stop complaining, she says and pushes me away, horny as a toad. Now the sun disappears, and the sky rains cold hard cash.