by Robert Beveridge


At our school, detention
was held in a room hung
off the side of a cliff. Breakers
of inscrutable rules were lowered
in a basket made of popped balloons
and turpentine, deposited
in a plexiglass cell to be
watched over by tinpot Foucaults.
It is in fact true that recidivism was rare
though parents who had lost
offspring to mechanized failures
were known to question
whether the practice was, perhaps,
a touch stentorian. Nonsense,
huffed the principal, our success rate
speaks for itself. Our graduates include
two Senators, a member of the Star Chamber,
enough Freemasons to fill to Rose Bowl.
That Congress and its temples lay
at the bottom of the gorge is never
mentioned, though always known.


Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances include Chiron Review, Third Wednesday, and Random Sample Review, among others.

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