a poem a day for a year #247

by Amy Turn Sharp


It's exhausting trying to be good. My car wants to drive fast.
My heart wants medicine. I want to pull into Nazareth or something similar.
A man rubbed my feet today. Reflexology. Push harder. He was telling me all about his life, like he couldn't stop.
This happens a lot, so I asked him to heal me and he just laughed. It's awkward being me.
Push harder.
People never think I'm serious. People don't know what a good driver I am.