by Robert Beveridge

Only saloons and the mental wards
of hospitals have those doors that swing.
The day room lacks a bartender
but is oversubscribed with cap guns.
Patients leap to their deaths
from tabletops while the head nurse
juggles pantyhose eggs
half-full of Compazine and dirt.
Seven times a day the whistle calls
group therapy sessions.
An hour of silence: we listen
to our own voices, watch the shadows
of bars move across the floor
sun the color of rye.

Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise at and writes poetry in Akron, Ohio. He has recent or upcoming appearances in The Virginia Normal, Credo Espoir, and Chiron Review, among others.