Robert Beveridge


This could be
the only hotel in Wales
where live lobsters are served
to unsuspecting customers

they must paint them
that peculiar shade of red
only achieved
in boiled lobsters
and the eyes of hardcore drunks

one man, drunk, itinerant,
gets fingers pinched
by a mischievous lobster

he pries it open
and starts to eat



They thought
about ordering sandwiches,
but He kept dripping
on the rye,

so they settled for pizza,
where the stains
wouldn't show as much.

They're sitting
out on the porch
in a little cafe
in New Hope, Pennsylvania,

just across the bridge
from that great big glow-in-the-dark
garden Golgotha
He now calls home.

He's been incognito these last two thousand years,
shaved his head
and moved to Libya
after the ascension trick,
then emigrated
to America
at the outburst
of World War I.

The interviewer, swallowing
a bite of pepperoni,
notes that He
looks like Willem Dafoe
in the epic film
about his life,
except He, in the flesh,
is wearing jeans and sneakers.

He did let the mustache
grow back, at least.

The two sit
in a momentary lull in conversation
and sip Pernod,
staring out
at West Mechanic St.

He speaks
before the interviewer
can grab a pen:

“There was a hit and run
at this corner
some years back.

The poets
had a field day with it.”

Flustered, the interviewer
scribbles a few words:
“Hit and run—W. Mechanic—
poets field,”

but his subject
is already talking
about life in Persia
|in the 13th century.



For Allison Beveridge

It is a common door, the same
as the other twenty-five on the hallway.
Brown, handle, peephole in the knocker,
a place to run a fob. It’s the payoff
for the caress of plastic on plastic,
the blink of the green light,
that sets this door apart.
the place itself is small, functional.
A kitchen just big enough to cook
for two, a space for a child to play,
love seat to curl up and watch movies,
comforting and comfortable bed
with two sets of pillows. An escape
from a world full of errands that must
be done just so, endless paperwork
and too many storage boxes. I’ve put
two steaks on the grill, potatoes
}in the oven. All that is required of you
is to pick up a fork, talk about nothing.


ROBERT BEVERIDGE makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Pink Litter, The Ignatian, and YuGen, among others.