Skybox seat.

Feet up Ferris wheel style.

Winter sun skates by,

brightening up dusty blinds.

 

Fill up the stage.

Count the number of instruments which fit

in my jaw, at an obtuse angle;

 

asking how jobs, life, husband,

and the weather

happen to be treating me

as if it matters.

 

Like I’m a politician. Or a gardener

who knows everyone at the mansion.

A ‘Clue’ character being interviewed before

the card is pulled from a yellow envelope, whodunit?

 

My fake broken neck I can’t-turn-my-head view.

Someone with an obscure name, donning scrubs

will clean your teeth now; call the plays as they go.

 

“Raise your right arm,

open your mouth as wide

as a football field!”

I probably could.

 

Then I will walk out the door.

And Wednesday morning will go back to

whichever errands Wednesday

morning happens to need-to-do.

 

Add to the laundry list of excuses.

No penny for any thoughts.

Only a quarter for the jukebox.

 

Or new pen

and clean linen sheets of paper

to scrawl on.

 

 

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 first appeared in Scapegoat Review, and recently in the Peeking Cat 2016 Anthology.