by Robert Beveridge

it’s when you crest the hill
and the town spreads out
before you like butter that
ripples over the surface
of red bread and you can
taste the hash browns, smell
the coffee even if you don’t
drink it, the tender pang
of the sautéed onions
in a perfect black bean soup
and the stars through
a telescope in the sixty-five
degree cool of an October
night long after the pool
has closed. Another perfect
sunrise is just hours away
but the fridge has leftovers
and we are always hungry.

November 2018 marked Robert Beveridge’s thirtieth anniversary as a publishing poet. When not writing, he makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) in Akron, OH. He has recent and upcoming appearances in Halfway Down the Stairs, San Pedro River Review, and South Broadway Ghost Society, among others.