a poem a day for a year #354

by Amy Turn Sharp


My massage therapist tells me to drink lots of water when I leave her office. I go right to my fridge and drink cold beer. Several. I stare out the window at the neighborhood all lit up like magic and my head still tingles from so much touch. I'm prone to boredom. Why can't I just enjoy the fuzzy lights and the way the tree smells? Is it true or not that Christmas is sad? I'd like to take you into the woods behind my father's house and chop down a tree again. Run on ice. Open my mouth to the sky. Everything fall in. My arms stretch towards the star at the top of the tree. It's nice here.