In the land where no one uses turn signals, by the park of smashed in trash bin always reeking of bowling alley sweat. Two teenagers see-saw their words. Dog leashes whir and half broken lawn mowers chirp and cut rocks in half. I spy chain-smoking clouds as the conversation revs on in between siphoning down sodas in scratched glass bottles; face masks on their spoon rest chins. I say to myself, aloud, that is poetry. We tally runners, and friends and former neighbors and passed on relatives; and think that everything can't be that bad, right now. The sun is up and pours down on us even at this hour. In Mid-August heat, the words still visit, at least.
Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul from the Midwest. When not working two jobs, she chirps down coffee while scrawling lines. Her work has appeared in many places, but most recently at Ex Ex Lit, and Duane's PoeTree site.
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