The snakes have come to Highland
Square, wriggle and thrust
like hipsters at a White Stripes
reunion gig.
We sit on the front
porch and play bingo, search
for O65, skinny jeans, a non-
ironic handlebar mustache.
The sweat of August drips onto glasses,
second week of busted AC
and peanut butter crackers. Your slick
hand as much a comfort as in the late
March snow. “Turn left
on Conger”, the GPS tells us,
and we do, headed for home,
the open freezer door, the shed
skin, the sheets of water.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 2.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.
See all items about Robert Beveridge