The Last Metro on Television
has crumbled into rust and disembodied
flywheels, carried the torch for subcompacts
everywhere into the Oder where somehow
it still burns, a beacon, a will-o-wisp,
a threshold into some other unknown
world of water, time, rust. You took
photographs, were compiling a list
of possible online publication sites
but then the ambulance flew by,
lights dim but sirens full force. When you
pulled over, the truck from the other
lane had disappeared and there was
seaweed in your ear again. The time
to file the adoption papers looms
but you still haven’t found the perfect
jerboa, not to mention learned whether
he prefers Boris Karloff to Spencer Tracy.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry on unceded Mingo land (Akron, OH). Recent/upcoming appearances in Raven Cage, Revolver and Impspired, among others.