Jape by Robert Beveridge

You’ve spent three months
in this cell, the walls bare
save what seems to be
a religious symbol for a sect
you do not recognize. The door
opens only for bread, water,
trips to the home improvement
store. Your faceless captors
drop you sporadic flyers
about amenities you have
never seen, nor wish to.
Another fifty push-ups
and it’s onto the cot
for another night wondering
how you got here, whether
you will ever be set free.


Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Literary Yard, Big Windows, and Locust, among others.

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