a poem a day for a year #342

by Amy Turn Sharp


You may not have heard me when I told you what I wanted.
It's fine.
I'll tell you again
and this time I will look you in the eye like a soldier,
like a very serious drunk.
I'll grab your arm and steer you towards the door.
Snow falls on the pavement, 
cars rattle and roll. 
Every single bar parking lot feels the same.
People coming and going,
and the music is always muscular.
Alive.