a poem a day for a year # 151

by Amy Turn Sharp


Walt Whitman is on
the corner.
He sticks out his thumb
and smiles.

His beard is so distracting.
I am riding a bike.
There are snarls and leaves and grass
and tiny birds in his white whip of a beard.

I am peddling so fast.
I slow down.
I coast.

I hold out my hands to him the third time I pass.

We make contact.
Skin on skin.
He feels like a leather journal.

I stop my bike.
He climbs on the handlebars.
He fits perfectly.
Birds issue forth from his coat.
The sky is purple, like pie.

Walt hums to me as we ride down 4th street
towards the buildings.
As we fly like free verse into the sex of the city.