a poem a day for a year #313

by Amy Turn Sharp


I write poems on index cards and tuck them in my bra
I go about my day
later when I sit on a bench
or eat in a café
I pull them out and add to them
because someone is just so beautiful
or my pants are on fire
or the smell of the world
whipped my head sideways
I finish the poem
if a poem is ever finished
I think it’s alive and moving always through the mind
later in the deep sex of the night
I put it in the computer and
tear the card to bits and bits
for someone to never find
just garbage recycled
matter in the world
destined to touch you
move you
forever
and I’m gone