Robert Beveridge

It rains cannoli in that little
town in the Balkans, you’ve
heard, where you plan
to honeymoon once you’ve
found the perfect pair of onyx
shoehorns. Ever since you
cut yourself skiing, though,
they’ve been harder to come
by; you never thought you,
of all Eton dropouts, would be
able to claim such influence
over the weather, the Nigerian
economy, the nomination
process for American Kennel
Club justices. A few bugs
in the right ears, though, and
boom, the media scrutinize
the beer brat preparation
techniques, CD collections,
and closet corners of every fine,
upstanding rapist in a five-
county radius. What is the world
coming to? No, matter,
the screwdrivers are chilled, lacrosse
match starts at noon, and that
unfortunate Irish boy has been
thrown out with the bones
of yesterday’s skate mousse
with pink truffle oil. Dessert
is only ever a cumulus away.

About the Author

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others.