when I drive I often think in fiction
but this type of fiction isn’t twist-tied up with a pink bow
it doesn’t smile at wild monkeys chomping on buttercups
in fact it’s never seen a horse, sheep, goat, llama, or monkey voluntarily consume buttercups
it’s disgruntled fiction             that can tip the manicurist $38
and yackety-yak in a British accent because (my) fiction just got new eyebrow tattoos
some even call it the merriest fiction        sure to pack-a-punch
but not because of wholehearted skill or force
my fiction has no typical day       no gods appear      no absolute truth.

on this particularly stormy ride        I feel beautiful and kind of old
so I start to use my best tools to tinker
the truck in front of me is showing off its male genitals
and its bumper sticker reads
“the oxford comma might get you the best blow job of your life!”
so I start to fabricate a craigslist ad
truck seeking lady truck                    “my dating record includes a whopping 0 restraining orders  and I’m allergic to lurking in the bushes”
but Mr. Truck didn’t like this               He swerves              I swerve
I non-fictionally spill coffee on my lap and glide to the side of the road
where I turn to my fiction and laugh          “I think you would give me a hit that I couldn’t take”

Rikki Angelides is a poetry MFA candidate at Emerson. She reads poetry for Redivider,
lives in Boston with her marimo moss ball Wasabi, and spends a majority of her time in a drafty sunroom communicating with her people. You can read her forthcoming in Empty Mirror and OCCULUM. Find her on Twitter: @rikkiangelides.