a poem a day for a year #80

by Amy Turn Sharp


I always take it to the extreme. I am an only child. I am an attention seeker.

Like today, I tripped and fell in the street but instead of quickly jumping up and dusting off I just rolled around a bit and laughed and laughed like it was such silly fun to fall flat face concrete in sweet shoes and in a dress. My legs were doll part splayed out and all of the contents of my handbag rolled down the road. Lipsticks. Notebooks. Matchbox cars. Baby bottles. Pills. Apples. Pennies. Dust.

An old man pointed his cane at me. Point. Point. Touched the sidewalk and asked me if I was OK. I told him I was SUPER. I laughed and laughed. It's the first day of Spring. Not FALL man. HA.

I was always the most popular girl at summer camp. I was always the loudest girl in any bar. I was always the person to jump out of the car and do anything. I kissed first. I still do.

But sometimes I want to be quiet and still and small and unassuming and not restless to make everything so much. I want to fall down and jump up like a squirrel and scamper on down the road. I want to blend in more instead of sticking out. I tell my husband this and he breaks a big grin and tells me that I tell tiny lies. He says even in the dark I will find a flashlight and make a disco. I frown. He smiles and tells me that discos are great. We always dance.