Poem – Outsiders (By Robert Beveridge)



The Club

sits in the back

in the middle

talks over old times


it’s an amoeba

that splits

every once in a while


go off to New York

or Indianapolis

but always

pull back together

up here


a few drunk poets

wander in

now and again

but do not understand

the amoeba fraternity


these outsiders

are the blades

that puncture the amoeba

infuse it with their blood

their life


but it doesn’t notice

of course

just goes on

with its reminiscences


you look across

the room

like one of the outsiders


your lack of turtleneck

and corduroy

give you away


but you’re the perfect infusion

for this amoeba


your eyes algae green

your hair blood red


your voice caramel dark

thick, made to flow

reminiscences of a past

you only half believe in


after a few hours

a few trips to The Club

you like all the outsiders

look bored


I know

I’ve been here

for centuries

still I sit

against the wall



so come over

and sit beside me


maybe together

we can find

a way out


Author Bio:

Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Wildflower Muse, Noble/Gas Qtrly, and The Ibis Head Review, among others.