Pass the plate, pass
the rice, pass the sign
on the highway labelled
“enforced sexiness, 1 1⁄4
miles”. You stopped
seven leagues back
for pushcart ceviche,
decided a few furlongs
later your judgment
has, in the past, been
better. But did that prevent
an empty bowl? Don’t be
silly, Paladin. If a bevy
of truck stop call girls
can’t show you where
to make a joyful noise,
there’s an almost endless
expanse of sand, saguaro,
saudade any way you look.




by Robert Beveridge

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Robert Beveridge

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Stone of Madness, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Caustic Frolic, among others.

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