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







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





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


until they fall

with open eyes


recite your litany


enter the names

of the dead

in your book

with a pencil stub



poems by Robert Beveridge

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Scroll to top