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 (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Collective Unrest, Cough Syrup, and Blood & Bourbon, among others.