a poem a day for a year #205

by Amy Turn Sharp


I wasn't paying attention today to the world,
I let it pass on by me.
Most days I study the way the men walk
with purpose past me on the street,
the way the copier smells like Chinese food,
how you push your glasses up your nose,
light from the window making halos in your hair,
all the chatter around me.
But not today.
I didn't even listen to the gaggle of girls in the cafe
talk about the boy with the silver eyes.
I didn't look at her green skirt twirl around when she told them
how he smelled like sandalwood,
like sage.
I couldn't even tell you what the brick streets looked like when wet today,
how they shined like velvet,
like cat fur stroked the right way.
No, not today.
I was just thinking about you,
and your broad heart.