There’s a man clutching a
black and red-striped umbrella,
passing my elementary school playground.
Under the dome, he’s shuffling,
struggling to light a cigarette
with his shaky espresso hands.
He looks like a boy scout
trying to light a fire
for the first time.
I never knew how to properly
inflate a bike tire
or asphalt a driveway.
I can’t change oil and
my electric shocked wrists
often shake like broken popsicle stick
fence posts falling from a model home.
But I spew ‘em words and stitch
my coffee-burned throat into stanzas
and bury my notebook with no signature.
In many years to come,
line my coffin with
the cable car lines I left in here.
Or scrawl it on a park bench
as the anonymous writer.
Full Bar, 9:31pm, On a Rainy Tuesday
Or is it?
He slams a shot glass down
and howls swear words.
I’m speechless after a long day at work,
and only have enough store-bought energy
to clutch his pinky and settle for
the cheap wine special you
wouldn’t catch me dancing around with
at a high school kegger
I never went to.
He paws, now wanting more attention
as I’m humming to the song
playing on the oversized bar TV.
He allows the alcohol to run him down,
and I’m only on drink one.
The night is young,
even as my neighbors will be mowing their lawn
at an ungodly hour.
Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working three jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places (including the trash bin), but also at In Between Hangovers, Duane’s PoeTree site, and The Rye Whiskey Review.
Artist Sally Deskins is an artist and writer focusing on perspectives of women including her own. She’s been published internationally and exhibited nationally and has curated several exhibitions and books.