by Robert Beveridge
We thought we were on land
but the bar has a roll to it,
like we’re in the horse latitudes
of liquor, with a jukebox
that pitches and ywas, stretches
a three-minute song to play
all night but burns
through In-a-Gadda-da-Vida
in the time it takes
to down a pickleback.
Still, Velastro makes great
liverwurst sandwiches,
and you can’t beat
the happy hour prices.
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.
