a poem a day for a year #326

by Amy Turn Sharp


I'd like to be entirely inappropriate with you and don't tell me you don't understand. Cock your head to the side and say that your life is perfect. Wouldn't change a thing. Well, me either. I just want to be a very old woman in a very large chair, nestled with books and cups of tea as big as my head. I want to sit there and think about all of my marvelous mysterious ways. All the things I did. I'd take you to this place I know. We'd stay up all night dancing and drive an Italian sports car to the mountains. Or maybe we'd just go to the bar or church or your kitchen table. It doesn't matter, because you would show me your heart and I'd tell you everything was going to be fine and you'd believe me. And the sun would come up anyway. It always does. It just matters that you say yes to the things that scare you. Alarm you and envelope you with wonder.