Junk St. by Robert Beveridge

I guess
there’s nothing else
to say

I hung up the phone
and cried again

her voice
was like someone
on the hollow barrel
of a syringe

says she’s fucking
her pusher now

I guess
she gets it all free
’cause he thinks
he loves her

maybe it’s easier
to love a shell

I don’t think so

Robert Beveridge
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Borrowed Solace, Dodging the Rain, and Twyckenham Notes, among others.



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