Tuesday Afternoon

 

Cheese-grated my two-bit soles

on strainer sewers.

A man, nighthawk coat,

cigarette for a beak,

stopped in front of me

to ignite his habit.

‘Designated Smoking Area’ sign chain-gain hangs,

on a rusted work area fence.

I play I Spy, since it isn’t my habit.

So I’m scrawling within those rusted

divided fence lines.

As trains squeak by again.

 

 

On the Drive Home

 

Got all the greenlights.

None of my pitched tents flew away.

No one chased me with canes, or pitchforks.

Crossed my fingers passing by the cemetery.

No Bates Coffin Company truck whirring by, today.

One hand in pocket, other, peace sign.

The coffee cup isn’t arguing,

my wrists aren’t throbbing.

My head opportunity knocks,

opens the skeleton door,

asking me to light-switch flick my neurons off,

and into the gutter.

They can hopscotch another day.

Tell the words to go home.

Revert back to reality, the

mailman’s boxcar trudging,

as you synchronized swim back your car up

into the driveway, as every other automaton does.

And go on with your day, young comma.

 

Blank Canvas

 

Throw it. Frisbee catch.

FedEx employee smash. What does fra-gi-le mean?

Supermarket Sweep energy intact.

Sit on the ocean. Pelican stance.

Karate chop, Karate Kid kick.

Water gun target practice.

Tray for the picnic.

Snowshoes.

Baseball stadium cushion.

Bike ramp for the cul-de-sac.

Divide the room from the ex-boyfriend.

Build an eloquent statue

along the interstate.

Artistic representation.

Wilderness display.

Someone else planting

their artistic signature.

Rattling on. Wiring away.

Even my coffee cup is spent.

 

 

Migraine

 

Hopscotched the curb

as I always do,

plucked Excedrin off the shelf,

paid in vending machine lottery change

to get rid of the thunderstorm

crashing my cranium.

Cloaked figures loiter by the no loitering sign

and argue over favorite brands of cigarettes.

Where’s the lone figure,

the getaway car?

Broad daylight curtain backdrop sighs.

My watch dial runs on empty,

vomits battery acid to cement,

like bullet-ridden glass smashed in a silent movie.

I head home, for my own

leaky paper cup sanity

to hold its own contents.

 

Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work first appeared in [now-defunct] Scapegoat Review, has appeared in Peeking Cat, VerseWrights, and recently at In Between Hangovers, Tuck Magazine, Communicators League, and Duane’s PoeTree site.