By Alyssa Trivett
A compression sock.
Wooden baseball bat.
Power drills
aligning the wall,
armed to the teeth with battery packs.
Rusted out workbench.
Operational electric model train town, circa ’97.
Miscellaneous slippers,
plastic laboratory glasses,
beakers, and pipettes.
Old business cards from your consulting business.
Referee whistles.
Identification badges for the park district.
A keychain of skeletons,
stamp collection.
Indian pennies.
The Millennium Falcon shirt they cut up.
A crater in the garden,
where the birdbath still resides,
afternoon shadows
in the foyer
make hand puppet gestures.
Your car melts out in the sun, a statue, for now.
Everything you left behind.
Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work recently appeared at in Between Hangovers, The Literary Yard and Mad Swirl.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 