Robert Beveridge

By the time it gets to you, the river
is nothing more than a muddy creek.
That most of the time isn’t
a problem. But then you get the out-
of-season rain, the snowmelt,
the kids who chase mallards,
catch walleye to sell to the local
sushi restaurant. The clock ticks
down, the burble becomes a rush,
and all the drunks who live
under the bridge are washed
into the kind of lake that has
no name, promises redemption
through suffocation but delivers
only the latter. Someday
this water will run out, but when
is anyone’s guess, and thunderheads
are once again on the horizon.

About the Author

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Collective Unrest, Cough Syrup, and Blood & Bourbon, among others.