Poetry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan Ð Art by Andrew Sao
The path is the progression like birdseed
on its way to being eaten
and the spines of books are just tiny
inkblot men
lit firework cracking
into a shuddering cream corn world
and I share such sentiments
with this newest one
in bed
and she laughs
says I am crazy
like a clown without a face
as I roll her over
run my nails down
her back
while the green electrical box hums
and competing cats
circle in the
street
and my car sits silently in park
in the drive
like a naughty
child
on time
out.
England Stole my Rain, and Now All I Can Be
is Happy
In line behind an old lady
counting pennies
when I have to pee
or stuck in afternoon gridlock
with a broken radio
and no air conditioning
I would love to rage
but all I can do
is laugh
as a flock of seagulls
crap all over my head
and a nail gun and a barefoot
become a reason to go to
the hospital.
Pregnancy scares elicit a chuckle,
meteor showers, a promise to soap and lather.
The apocalypse is tomorrow
and I have rose coloured glasses
glued over my eyes.
England stole my rain
and now all I can be
is happy.
A death in the family tries to help me,
but my tears are tears of joy.
Even parking enforcement
is taken aback
when I grab the ticket off the windshield
smile ear to ear
and tell the fine young man
just out of school
in the starched blue uniform
to
drive safely.
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