You woke up at dawn in a trolley
car, and no matter which way you
looked, the ground was sand,
hardback, tumbleweeds, dust.
You figured you’d follow the rails
but you hopped down and not only
were there none, the car had no
wheels to ride them anyway.
You tried to remember last night,
but there was nothing. In fact
your last coherent memory
is when you were five, a dream
where you woke up in the middle
of the desert, the rest of humanity
snatched up in a rapture, no doubt,
you’d had related in Sunday school.
Now it’s later, later enough you
are old, you are tired, but the sand
welcomes you like its oldest friend,
there’s static on the radio, and you
wonder what happens when a human
being changes, to human been?
The direction doesn’t matter. First
the left foot, then the right.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Monterey Poetry Review, Creatrix, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.
Find more on Robert’s website.