Alyssa Trivett: Two Poems

Suburbia Afternoon

Birds cheep cheep. Twice, always.
Window screen; open sesame.
The speaker of my afternoon,
where basketballs thud across scarred sidewalk cracks
and delivered packages land on porches,
turning into box bits,
like coffee grounds,
when I shotput ‘em into the filter
and kickbox with afternoon hours,
always at the typer,
spewing commas at margins.

Taking the Deceased's Car In

Waiting room disinfectant 
lights my nostrils on circus-hoop fire.
My hands navigate 
hand-lettered quote pages
in a book I bought on a whim
at work,
and my pockets light up from
leftover vending machine change
clinking and clanging,
like a church bell at odd hours.
Tolling and rolling over, 
a grave which won’t remain in place.
I want to implant my fingerprints
on a new java surface
and invent new words to scream 
this grief into the technician’s work area
while coffee howls.
Instead, I keep the loss anonymous
and take care of the bill.