Bubbles

By Robert Beveridge

Sunday morning came and once
again you found yourself, 
aspergillum in hand, in the field. 
You have no water left, and all 
the cows seem to have halos 
in the dawn mist. You think 
perhaps you should lay off 
the sloe gin, but it is true
that the sexton mentioned 
record milk production this
year in the village, 
and the local rugby team is 
out of last place for the first
time in almost a century. 
You stand up, shake the dew 
off, head back to your closet 
for some hair of the cow.

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.