a poem a day for a year #197

by Amy Turn Sharp


I do not trust 2 for 1 tattoo signage. People with whiskey mouths. The janky fluorescent lighting of convenience stores. My circadian rhythm. My heart is a lonely sleepwalker. I may not stop talking to you. I don't trust things. The ghost of John Hughes comes to me at night and strokes my hair. I do not speak. I drive a fast car through green hills. I stop at the river and take off all my clothes. I jump in and pretend that my eyes are cameras. That my fingers are microphones. I take the history of this place. I pull myself up to the bank and my fingers bury into the Ohio mud. I trust this mud, it's been here for years.