poems by Robert Beveridge

Four Wheel Drive

 

That moment

when you

have been

on the road

so long

you forget

the feel

of pavement

under your

boots

 

 

 

Occupation

 

There is a small fleet

of marmosets in your

kitchen. The good thing

about this is they have

prepared your easter

dinner and you are

ready for the inevitable

guests

 

 

 

Page of Pentacles (reversed)

 

I wish everyone

in these other cars

on North Broad

at four in the morning

were harmless

 

how many beautiful

women were out here

at midnight but are not now

 

they have taken to their beds

perhaps to the comfortable

arms of lovers or maybe

the cool bluster of empty sheets

 

they cannot celebrate

the beauty of our city

in the predawn black

punctured with 24 hour

gas station lights with me

 

 

 

Pigs, All of You, Pigs

 

The rat tribunal passes judgment,

and it is never anything

but the stake. We have never

paused to ask ourselves

if there is another option.

 

The skull thrown to the surface

by the overzealous gravedigger

is the most pious inhabitant

of the battlefield; we ask

for premonition, get naught.

 

The smoke from the flames

blacks out the sun, but we

cannot deny it warms us,

cooks our food, allows god

to see us from heaven.

 

 

 

Vet for the Insane

 

smell of dead waterfowl

and the breezy infidelities

of decayed foliage

 

always alert

you sleep in ellipses

check the platform

for movement

 

find an abandoned

subway tunnel

curl into slumber

activate the eye

in your spine

 

then, silent,

draw your pistol

and shoot

shoot

until they fall

with open eyes

 

recite your litany

 

enter the names

of the dead

in your book

with a pencil stub

 

 

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