These three poems by Robert Beveridge confront the ways we interact with one another, or don’t…
by: Robert Beveridge
Cashed Out
I went down another hallway identical
to the last seven hallways I’d gone down
in this tower block in search of 742.
You’d think it would be on the seventh floor.
You’d be wrong. At least it’s not a walkup.
But still, these hourglasses are heavy
and the inside of my windbreaker
is stained with the kind of sweat you don’t get
unless it’s January and you’ve traversed
eight apartment complex hallways
that don’t contain the one door you need.
In god We Rust
A feast on the hill,
joints of meat, butter
against the tongue
that tastes of clover.
Perhaps too much mead,
but the view so good
it's cause for celebration.
From here we see
the weave of each
sackcloth shirt
before the mayor
pulls the lever.
We can hear each
of the prisoner's
thirteen steps
when there's a lull
in the voice of the crowd.
The nobles in the box seats
may consider this overtime
and draw extra salary for it
but we, we know a festival
when we see one.
Precautions Against Fanatics
When your old friend walks into the restaurant
for the reunion the two of you have planned
for six months and his eyes go past you
with no recognition. When the elected officials
go door to door in the gated community
to drop off gas masks, silver bullets, and wooden stakes.
When the crowd at the local barbershop
all bet on the same horse. When you put a pot roast
in the slow cooker and eight hours later
pull out a squab. When there is nothing but rain
for two weeks before it turns to hail
without a cloud in the sky. When the La Brea tar pits
solidify. When your old friend sits down at another table
with a bottle-blonde wearing too many rings
and when the waiter asks for your order, you ask
for the fried ringworm only to have him sit down
across from you and ask “so how’s it been going, Gerald?”
when your name is Aloysius.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). He published his first poem in a non-vanity/non-school publication in November 1988, and it’s been all downhill since. Recent/upcoming appearances in Nebo, OPEN: A Journal of Arts and Letters, and The River, among others.
