Coffee at the Car Dealership

By: Alyssa Trivett

 

I’m two cups of coffee in.

Playing tennis match at the intersection.

I’m Frogger, I’m trapped.

Waiting rooms,

and the reflection of the mini fridge,

freshly stocked with snacks.

Head on in.

 

Counters wiped after each patron steps up,

and employees discuss

timetables of their shifts.

 

Everything is automatic. A mind palace.

I’m gleam like the floors

of a school after-hours.

I’ll burn out post,

running through sample doors in

the hardware store, I’m ten again.

 

Chairs arranged with invisible men.

Occupied with air, aligned to the inch,

soldiers stand tall in place.

 

Counting the hour,

the time it takes from here to there.

Names fall off the appointment screen.

 

And suddenly, I’m departing.

Spared from tacky home improvement show TV-hosts.

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