A poem a day for a year #182

by Amy Turn Sharp


Of course I'm impressionable,
I'm a poet.
I waved my arms and drank several pints and then went off the deep end describing the pleats of her skirt.
I lingered for hours on his rough hands. I told you the stories.
The moon was blue.
I sang terrible songs.
I am always looking for something to remind me.
Of you.