a poem a day for a year #347

by Amy Turn Sharp


it's not terribly important 
for you to love me
but you need to touch me
somewhere
like my neck
or my leg
or my heart
the smallest cramp corner
of my mind
where the dust has never settled
where this girl lives
who breathes
and inhabits the last open room
of the misfit hotel
at the end of the road
where the people
dance 
their arms in the air
like believers