They never replace the bulb
near the table in the corner
which is why the chair is empty
unless I’m in it. The bartender
knows my drink, the waitress
brings the new one when there’s
a quarter-inch left in the glass.
A few bruised kidneys and full
pages later it’s time to pack up
and leave some twenties and open
the door and walk into the sunshine
but only as far as the theater
next door, screen one, right side,
four rows from the door, aisle.
It is nothing, it is all, it doesn’t
matter what the movie is as long
as it is a movie and it is playing.
There is a groove in the sidewalk.
It will get deeper.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in New American Legends, Toho Journal, and Chiron Review, among others.
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