a poem a day for a year #363

by Amy Turn Sharp


I put you in a paper cup on my windowsill. I say sweet words to you and give you water. The expensive soil. Black as night. But you don't grow my way. You grow towards the sun.  And when I laugh, I'm not really happy. I wish I were a scientist. I would use the scientific method to figure out what's wrong with me. I'd wear a lab coat and dance all day. I'd be better.