Hopscotch with circles,
ovals, vodka with a tablespoon
of bitters for flavor. A call
was placed; you do not know
the details, but keys
have been turned, the cover flipped,
and the button lies exposed,
ripe for the pressing.
You always took your drinks neat
but just this once, you think,
perhaps I’ll try it on the rocks
see if it guides the ship
in a different path along the shore.
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH.He has recent/upcoming appearances in Guide to Kulchur, Chiron Review, and Riverrun, among others.