Schrödinger
Tiny pink nose pressed
against the glass door six
stories up. Whisker tips
carve spiderwebs in the fog.
She waits for us to come back,
perhaps there, perhaps not.
Snow drifts onto your balcony
as we walk back from an hour
of chai and conversation, your hand
as warm as the mug earlier.
Another Ohio spring, last night
your room so hot clothes were
a burden, and now there’s not
enough flannel in the world.
We lay wrapped around one
another in your small bed, sound
of the parking-lot snowplow
rises from six stories below. Calico
head butts my hip, begs attention.
My fingers loath to leave
the delicious curve of your back.
© Robert Beveridge
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. He celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of his first publication in November 2018. Recent/upcoming appearances in Cough Syrup, Penumbra, and Lowestoft Chronicle, among others.
The Loch Raven Review 