Flipping the Bird

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Three boys
back from corner convenience
share pop rocks
and soda.

Stopping by the curb
they stand over a dead bird
in the street.

The oldest one kicks at it
a few times.

Flipping the dead bird over
from its stomach onto
its back.

After staring at it for a moment
they move on.

Towards the townhouses along Baily Lane
with cardboard over the
windows.

Mailboxes Tipped like Cows in a Field

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The horn is tooted,
yours or someone
else’s

and from that moment on
there is no going back
(and no wanting
too)        

the mailboxes tipped
like cows
in a field

humility
never had a chance

as the grey gosling
wails

and three fingers
pretend to be
four.

The Pride of Elizabethtown, Ky

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She climbs into bed
beside me
and turns out the light.

I imagine Europe
the Dark Ages,
only the green fire alarm light
blinking in 28 second
intervals.

We are on our way
to Florida.

The land of Jimmy Buffet
and the Seminole
Indian.

Outside
by the car
a large bronze fountain
of lions
stands guard.

The pride of Elizabethtown
Kentucky.

If we drive right through
we should be on the beach 
by five,
the darkness
says.

I play the ode to joy
on my belly,
or how I imagine it should
be played.

My fingers in the dark
like the legs of
a jubilant
spider.

Along the Banks of the Serpent River

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

the Ojibwa elder
saw his reflection in the water.
It was that of a spotted leopard
when he was a child

but now it just looked old
and weathered.

As the Ojibwa elder looked upon the water’s reflection
and ran his fingers across the wrinkles of his face
he remembered the story of Narcissus
and laughed.        

He much preferred
the leopard.

The Sand Between Your Toes

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Sandcastles
into journeymen fiefdoms,
so what?,
the sand between
your toes.
And the lobster house
up on the hill
offering cold beer
and the daily catch,
your favourite table
by the window.

Looking out
upon free parking,
past the unshucked oysters
of promise
to one million bicycles
off the chain
in red

China.

Beware of Flowers

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Renoir had just finished

the Great Bathers
and turned to paint
a still life of flowers
when he suffered a heart attack
and died.

He was 78,
not quite
79.

The flowers didn’t seem to care
either way.

The flowers

stood over the body
drinking water
for three long
days                

before someone

noticed.

Pictures

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I started drawing pictures
and three days later
there were a lot
of pictures.

Pictures
on the wall
and pictures
on the floor
and pictures
pasted to my body
that crinkled
as I walked
around.

Trying to remember
why I had starting drawing
so many pictures.

Wet Tissue Through Wrinkled Fingers

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There was a scream from the water
and everyone
watched.

A young child
in orange water wings
ran out of the water
and began to turn purple.

First the hand puffed up to three times
the size
and then the arms
below the elbow.

Jellyfish,
some man yelled
as the panicked swimmers
trampled one another
on their way to the shore
and an empty lifeguard chair
nearby
sat without comment.

Wet tissue through
wrinkled fingers
as concerned parents ran into the water
to save their floundering
namesakes

and the world
turned purple as an eggplant

and
cried.

Looking for Lovers?

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There is a guy
who stands at the corner of my street
each morning,
picking his nose
for the better part of an hour.

I stand by the window
and watch him
in morbid fascination
while he greets his neighbours
as they head off to work.

Dressed in nothing
but his housecoat and slippers,
the guy
who stands at the corner of my street
each morning
picking his nose
for the better part of an hour
has a cup of coffee,
but he does not drink it.

He just splashes it out
over the side of the curb
in small increments
until the hour is up
and he is done picking
his nose.

He then heads back into the house.
Lowering the automatic garage door
behind him
before peering out of his own
front window
moments later.

We usually ignore the intrusive presence
of one another
but sometimes exchange the odd wave
or awkward nod

as we both watch the guy
up in the tree
five houses down
who feeds the birds sunflower seeds
as he uses his binoculars
to peer through the bedroom window
of his ex-wife.

Looking
for lovers,

I’d imagine.

Air Miles, Reward Miles

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Things are adding up
these days 
as cards are exchanged 
and the toothy woman behind 
the counter
is paid to wish you a good day
with every purchase 
over ten dollars.
 
I watch from the back of the line
until it is my turn 
to take centre stage.
                  
The cashier takes my card
and swipes.
 
It all adds up.
 
At this rate 
I should be able to fly 
non-stop 
around the world
by the time I'm 
273.