Three Martinis

Robert Beveridge


“Nectar,” he says as the liquid
leaves his lips. Eyes lock
on the double-olive strip of skin
above her collar.

Tangy. Chilled. Each sip
moistens the throat, yet
leaves him thirstier.


Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Blue Pages, Minute, and Chantwood, among others.