October Evening. by Alyssa Trivett

Dude in line
chain-ganging
by the cigarettes
swatting at a fly
but maybe he's looking
for 'em fighting words
to slobber up another poem.
People in line clutch beer
and their vices
and unhealthy snacks as
I swipe my bottle of wine
off the counter
like a pissed cat knocking
a glass over,
'cept I wasn't pissed.
You see,
this damned parking
lot is full,
an emergency room
springtime open window
as soon-to-be-code-blue
patients all lifting their arms
as they become
electrically shocked,
this nervous energy
live wires up
into the air and the paces
conglomerate together as
elementary school bullies.
He and I jump over puddles
and head somewhere
into another zip code,
anywhere other than here.
Clutching pinkies and all.




Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she listens to music, chirps down coffee, and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work has appeared recently at In Between Hangovers, The Penwood Review, and Apricity Magazine.