The rain rolls down your face
and onto your tongue, and that’s
when you realize it’s got that
slight bitterness that comes
from a cloud of residue. Not
like you were going to get
much done anyway since
the cops closed the old quarry
down before they chased off
those two chumps who’s
been there for, like, ever. You
stop in the woods to have
a smoke where no one can
see you, then it’s back
on the road to the nearest
convenience store with quarter
packs of baseball cards.
and onto your tongue, and that’s
when you realize it’s got that
slight bitterness that comes
from a cloud of residue. Not
like you were going to get
much done anyway since
the cops closed the old quarry
down before they chased off
those two chumps who’s
been there for, like, ever. You
stop in the woods to have
a smoke where no one can
see you, then it’s back
on the road to the nearest
convenience store with quarter
packs of baseball cards.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in El Portal, Blood Moon Rising, and PTMN.TEAU, among others.
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