by Robert Beveridge
knew, after you felt the first bite,
had found your niche.
mission was simple.
the rat required
and poison just didn't have the stuff.
leather, you always said, protects.
teeth glance off, don't sink.
whip, its rawhide kiss, to make him see
is mater, who is mouse.
makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes
poetry just outside Cleveland, OH.
Recent/upcoming appearances in Pulsar,
Tessellate, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others.