By Robert Beveridge
I took a swig from the can in my hand and set it on the car, then snuffed the last drag of my cigarette. The woman in the passing car waved goodbye. There was frost on the hood of my car. I stood by the drivers’ side, away from the lights, and pissed. The tarmac steamed where urine struck.
“Listen to the bush,” she’d said, and I did. The bush I faced babbled, jabbered, a hundred thousand rhesus monkeys and women in childbirth who flirted with madness. I stared at the bush, zipped up my jeans, tossed the can away, and got into the car. The thunk of the door cut off the cries of the bush. I drove away.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Red Coyote Review, Deep South Magazine, and Aromatica Poetica, among others.