November Night. by Alyssa Trivett

It was an off
November night
to begin with...
radio was blasting
The Police.
The moonlight
always glistens.
Like summer pool water.
I stampede across
broken railroad tracks,
In the heat of
my metal pillbox.

...but then it
became a beautiful evening.
even though the
speed limit is 45,
everyone drives 53 1/4 on
an empty gas tank,
always one pencil notch
lead from the
top of the gauge.
Maybe bottom.
All from driving to
the overpriced restaurant.
I waited in my car,
waiting for him to show up.
Tip-tapped lines
on my phone to
pass a few creaky
second and minute hands
wanting to retire
for the evening-
to shove two beers down
my human pie hole,
like a clown being
smashed in the face.
I settled for a glass of
wine instead.
He and I
then continue to count
our cup rings on napkins,
as always.

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.