a poem a day for a year #65

by Amy Turn Sharp


my mother tells me she never did such things
but she did
and I know because I sat sucking on my blonde braids
turned around in my seat
staring at the kid who looked like
the hot young guy from Little House on the Prairie
the one Laura gets with
the one from the mill

I watched his light hair flap around all floppy and beautiful
in the back of the El Camino
windy gusty ride

he did not wear sunglasses
his eyes were the color of squint
he stared back at me
and he was probably a good man
on his way to the next best thing
and my young mother was sweet and kind
and goddamn weren't the 70's a different time?

but she says she never did such things
I just smile
roll the word hitchhiker around in my mouth
and tell her that my father never made me wear
my helmet on his motorcycle either

we all exhale
we all made it