COMPEL
Let your voice wrap me
in the cool compress
of wonderment. It damps
my brow, washes fever
into runoff traps.
It is what you ask,
and what, for you, I do.
HOW MANY HEARTS HAVE YOU BROKEN?
Leather on the tongue,
luggage strap whose taste masks
the herbs beneath. Roasted,
fist-sized, pan juices supplied
by a well-used Leon Uris epic.
You throw the last of your clothes
into the trash compactor, prefer
to fill your mail pouch with frozen
foods, mismatched toys,
a half-burnt bowling trophy.
Hitchhike to the nearest train station
and hop a boxcar for somewhere,
anywhere. Pull out your travelling
snack, a carnivore’s waybread,
wrapped in amateur-tanned Samsonite.
SATURDAY NIGHT
I lie here on the overstuffed
sofa with a Pernod and orange
juice, a pad, a pen,
and wait for the phone
number on the scrap
in my hand to not ring busy
When I get through
recorded radio-ready
baritone informs me
in the jolliest of tones
no messages are available
so I’m doomed to another
night of boredom alone
with reruns of Twin
Peaks and a blank page
until I call again
ten minutes later
YES
after Bukowski
A man cradles
his newborn child
in his arms
I wonder
why most people
don’t find poetry
in this
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.
Academy of the Heart And Mind 