Poetry

Reuters photo

By

Alyssa Trivett

Saturday

Saturday in the rain,

clutching our umbrellas like overused commas.

Meeting you at the corner of the parked bench and wet paint sign

where I’ll sit with perpendicular

lines on my accidental new outfit.

Where’s Charlie Chaplin?

Fans whirring as fireworks kick-start

dust laps this afternoon.

My coffee cup refilling itself, magic.

I rattle on like a turnstile

repeatedly drinking from thimbles

and slamming down to wind up my arm again,

baseball pitcher in motion.

Forks play the plate. Scope out the place.

Chatter of routes we take, easy on the lemonade.

Shaking ice as the icebreaker in this case.

Yellow walls and dull décor.

Emerald green tiles line the walkway,

He glares at the menu waiting for an answer

from the other end of the Styrofoam cup;

for a sentence to spew out

potentially to relay.

Even roman numerals

could count the hours in this day.

Ninety Four

Can-opener cut corners around the block,

etched dragged feet into cracked pavement squares

like chipped Scrabble pieces thrown on the board.

Springer spaniel Cinnamon Star, at the helm.

Our mile path guides us

autopilot superglued to tennis shoes and

your speckled paws trot on.

’94 still lives.

Alyssa Trivett

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, numerous anthologies, Peeking Cat, VerseWrights online, and recently through W.I.S.H. Press online.