Float Bills change hands. The politician keeps a pen in his pocket for autographs a separate one for thorazine injections. Babies require handshakes. He has an unreasonable fear of bridges. Wind across the elms banks left, sends another flock of laws across the mall. Only in cherry blossom season is this kind of graft common, or even permitted. Two hunters in camouflage raise their twelve- gauges, gaze through scopes. Monkeys cling to the Jefferson Memorial. Ostensible The bomb disposal unit are on their way, they say, but the suitcase is strapped to a Roomba, bounces around the patio. Each person who watches it discerns a different pattern; one sees the sigil of a thieves’ guild defunct five hundred years, another the step diagram for the next trendy dance. Et cetera. Each interpretation is correct; each interpretation is wrong. When the team arrives, surrounds the field of play with their plexiglass shields, the sun’s reflection dances from place to place, eye to eye, creates a pattern of its own. Everyone stops, mesmerized. All is still except the click and whirr, click and whirr of the cleaner and its cargo, whatever that may be. Spirit Cooking We lifted our voices in song, composed a Threnody for the Victims of Lordstown, backed with an Industrial Concerto for Rust and Broken Glass. Some escaped, fled to Tennessee, Michigan, Indiana. The rest went home, sent their kids to school, filled out applications. We asked with blood, with blood and earth, with song, with song and blood, we asked for birth, for birth and growth, for growth and blood, for blood and song, for song and earth, for earth and growth, for the cycle that pushes blood into steel, into glass, into lights and machines and a factory that may not have followed so many of its brothers and sisters in the grave.
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Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Of Rust and Glass, The Museum of Americana, and Quill and Parchment, among others.
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