Poetry: Those Intrepid Men and their Complex Machines by Robert Beveridge
Those Intrepid Men and their Complex Machines
by Robert Beveridge
The inner tube, you
are given to understand,
is a delicacy in some
parts of the country.
The road looks as if
it dead-ends in the trees,
and no one drives far
enough down to see it
jog, twist, turn back
on itself, open into Bone
Creek Hollow, the last
uncontacted civilization
in North America.
The few hikers who
stumble in are never
heard from again. Whether
they become farmhands
or harvest is the source
of much hushed speculation
over the counter at Dauber’s
General Store, next town over.
Still, if you’re out on that
unnamed, unnumbered
county road on a school
night and find yourself
with a flat, you don’t have
a lot of choice. Offer up
the rubber on the altar
and pray Brenda gets home.
About the author
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Thunder, Feral, and Grand Little Things, among others.
Social Media:
IG: @ebolaisthesavior
Diaspora: shorturl.at/pqzRV
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