Vacation Days
I burnt my vacation days
into scarred pavement,
an ant targeted by a magnifying glass
in a Van Gogh yellow sun
wandering off into suburbia
and having a yard sale
with a deceased
family member's possessions,
I priced 'em but threw them
back into storage.
I never had the heart
to rid of them.
One story houses and train stations
take up residence.
Village hardware store windows
gleam in the morning dew and
spotted sunlight shines on
metal boxes covered in bird shit.
My coffee cup won't talk,
only the construction workers
with their lunch pales
vine wrapped around their shoulders,
their baby, this morning.
It can be beautiful if you let it.
I spy too many white-picket fences
and listen to the record of
train noises scratch against my eardrum.
The morning quarter rolls on.
Hospital Lobby, Thursday the 26th
They asked the coworker if they
wanted coffee,
if only you coulda seen
their cartoon eyes
pop out of their heads.
The hospital lobby corpse
drags itself through the day.
Occupied chairs get grooved on
and new cup rings
magician appear everywhere.
Pop-up shop of bundt cakes
overstocked on tables.
I count seconds waiting for elevators.
And collect vending machine change
in cupped hands;
my lottery for the day.
Alyssa Trivett
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.
