Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Poem for a Man who Works in His Shed

You hear him before you ever see him.

And always from the back as if standing at the end

of some impossible line.

Two wood doors left ajar.

A skill saw chewing up wood armies.

A pencil behind the ear for measurements,

half professional, in saggy blue jeans like a stroke

victim’s denim face.

And I guess they’d call it a wife beater.

That’s a strange name for a shirt, don’t you think?

Especially in these enlightened times.

A single can of beer balanced on one of the slats

on the inside of the far door.

The man drinks from it and clears his throat

many times.

Hairy arms extended out in all directions.

Glistening woodchips encased in scraggly dark tufts.

And the scream of the saw makes me think

of double feature horror flicks at the Orpheus.

The way popcorn makes itself at home in your teeth,

but you keep eating anyways.

And the forests that become wood that moonlight

as paper that sell as books…

Do not read books.

Their pages become your fingers

so even complete strangers call

you protagonist.

Scaling Teeth Instead of Walls

The dentist

is like a doctor

who couldn’t make it through

medical school,

but I don’t tell

him that.

He is glad to see me

because I have a medical plan

and he can bilk the government

big time.

Did you see Lacie?

he asks.

I shrug my shoulders.

The new one.

The redhead when you

came in.

I nod in the affirmative

because he is the one holding

the drill.

Doesn’t look good,

he says from behind

his mask.

What does?

I think.

And the more he shakes his head no,

the more it hurts.

His many framed papers on the wall

like free advertising.

No Dumping

He had his camera phone

so he shot a video in front

of the sign.

And she began to cry.

Ran off when she realized

the camera was rolling.

And the video went viral.

That yellow diamond shaped

No Dumping sign sitting silent

in the background the

entire time.

Saying Uncle,

Surrounded by Aunts

One

is bad

enough.

But get them all

together

in a single room

and the banality

of their collective

Being

is unbearable.

Horoscopes

dieting

you won’t believe

what so and so

was wearing...

After forty-five minutes

of this,

I throw my hands up

say uncle

and

leave.

Hoping

to find something

in the cupboard

that reads:

extra strength

on the

package.

The Last Days of Rome Again

Every street with a broken water main.

And a single orange cone to denote that the city

has been by and done nothing

and knows it is falling apart.

I like to get back here every few years.

To ride the trains of desperation

by Castle Frank station

watching mortgage payments out of the city doze off

and young professionals refuse to take a seat

because they believe they are

getting somewhere.

Nobody likes sequels.

The last days of Rome

again.

And we stay at my father’s place north of Finch and the DVP

which is a million dollar home even though

it is just a normal home.

But the market is such

that people are buying up cans of horseradish 

and calling them thoroughbreds.

In the guest room beside the bathroom

we lay on top of the blankets

because of the heat.

Playing a word association game

because she owns me.

While the water fills the streets outside

and late model cars sit in extended driveways

like four door office chairs

with power windows

that no one can afford

to sit in.

Setu, October 2018