BY ALYSSA TRIVETT
A friend called me late one night
four Springs ago
when all the basements flooded
and told me they wanted to rip all of the frames
off the walls to put them in a block party fire,
to twist stop signs like Sherman’s neckties
and to let all of their positive/negative thoughts
run out into traffic as a child with change in their hands
pillaging to the ice cream truck.
Only to settle down
under a lonely streetlight
in film noir
before the last line is muttered
and a gunshot is heard off-screen.
The rage is kind of like that,
my friend said.