Cock

by Robert Beveridge


They turn, wheel, stroll
about in front
of the door to the unemployment
office, scavenge cigarette
butts, caw, walk into walls,
too busy to look
where they're going,
but for some reason never,
ever fly away
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Robert Beveridge makes noise and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Neologism, In Between Hangovers, and Clementine Unbound, among others.