a poem a day for a year #164

by Amy Turn Sharp


I saw you on the corner of Neil and Buttles the other day,
you were beautiful in a small slice of sunshine.
You looked just like I remembered,
years and rabbit holes back.
I was riding in a car that was driving slowly past you,
like a sad movie scene.
I pushed my face against the glass and
could for the first time in a decade,
trust you.
You were over there,
and I was safely surrounded by metal.
Only for a moment did I imagine sticking my finger in your dimple.
Only for a cautious drive through a yellow light.