Three poems | by Alyssa Trivett

Paper

I trashed receipt paper,

a high school kegger of

semicolons on lawn chairs

and commas sitting in the 

kiddie pool.

They floated around the room,

waiting for red and blue lines,

or a blinking, weary cursor

to chaperone and grab them,

hide keys under the cat.

Scrawled all over every nook and cranny 

or corner on the white linen bits.

Eventually, we find out 

where everything goes.


Crawlspace

Demons declutter the attic

from sin, from neighborly 

possessions you borrowed

but forgot to return

before they moved to Fort Worth;

their horns float in succession

as they set items at the curb;

for sale; 

free to any decent skeleton.

The bright fluorescent

diner-like signs go off. 

Bicycle tires whir

and reflectors make

them known to the world.

And they head out.


Neurologist

Chairs sit in

an uneven rectangle.

My hat dangles from my head,

a crooked halo.

Ran my hands under warm water

at their request.

They said it will bring 

more accurate results.

Marks on my arms

in yellow dots, 

highlighted high school textbook.

Spaghetti-thin needle up and down

nerve boulevard. Both arms.

Electrode gel, my temporary tattoo.

I am a dissected frog,

lively, however.

They provide ice packs

as I depart.


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 has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Peeking Cat, on VerseWrights.com, Walking Is Still Honest Press online, and Duane’s PoeTree site.

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