I forgot the applewood bacon in the work fridge.

My mother sleeps

on the couch

as infomercials promising

or your money-back guarantee sins

blast like music

during a tumbling event.

There isn’t a single Z for shut-eye for me to borrow

this evening,

I sweated them out in eight-and-a-half hour aisle increments,

but I’ll get ’em back tomorrow,

from a garage sale,

in pocket change,

if I must.


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.

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