by Robert Beveridge
The jukebox skips, the same
tenth of a second of wah-wah
porn guitar on infinite repeat,
but no one goes over to give
it a whack. It fits, somehow,
with the décor, the shots,
the customers at the bar —
human from floor to waist,
catfish above. They drink
with moustaches, eat
the refuse from the city’s
other bars. Everyone
happy. Even the jukebox.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in London Grip, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, and Sin Fronteras, among others.
