Red light at a desolate intersection forces my
handmade purse onto the floor.
I look to see who I hate this time.
It’s a man with a “that guy” truck and trailer
smoking with the windows up.
He glances at me—not to gloat, but because
my shoulders are bare. 

Morning coffee in
the mall before the stores open;
people watching
as the grey hairs discuss
gluten, the kids, "the times".
-It’s so much worse out there these days.
-These godless millennials.
-I blame cell phones. 

The FedEx man waits for the girl in Old Navy to
open the gate and accept his delivery.
The man from UPS does the same
with the girl at the import store.
I am in a dress, but I feel radical
accepting no man’s delivery while
awash in discount Ts.

 I browse.

Chapters offers Cheryl Strayed who
tells me about her wildness in the desert
from the pages of a book as glossy as my lips.

Plastic bubbles sit in a vending machine
crammed full of plush emojis,
adding chance to parodic cheese.
How do I feel today?
Here’s a toonie and a faux metal crank. 

I step outside to feed the meter.
‘Fuck the Police’ is plastered over the coin slot.
I feel no comradeship with this bid for anarchy.
Mine is a clean day of well-trod dreams
and little more. 

A sign on the highway tells me
the lines on the road are being painted;
implores me not to cross them.
I need to turn left,
but I wait until the signs are gone
and the still unpainted lines go with them,
and the sidewalks with those. 

I think to myself that
when the lines run out
you’re probably doing something right.


Brianna Ferguson earned her BA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia in 2016. Her writing has appeared in Polychrome Ink, Femmeuary, Mistake House, Effervescent, and the upcoming anthology, Another Place.