Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Just Enough Time

My friend Curtis lived right next to our public school

and his mother was divorced and always working

and his sister was in high school and went wherever her boyfriend went,

so we had the place to ourselves, all those lunches,

and he would make us Kraft Dinner, 

a little runny like we preferred it 

and we would watch back-to-back episodes of The Flintstones, 

having to leave during the last five minutes 

of the second episode to make the bell

back to class 

and he said he never knew his father

and I told him how I wished I didn’t 

know mine, 

but I never told him how hot his sister was

because friends don’t do that, 

even though he must have known.

***

Invisible Tape

Giant cymbals crash together 

when I shimmy across the floor,

wool sock puppets on hands  

announcing the birth of a new 

form of motion,

old Chuckie Yeager breaking yokes 

for the early morning breakfast lobby,   

rolls of Scotch Tape celebratory and visible,

the same way a young child will cover their eyes

with their hands 

believing you cannot see 

them.

***

Whistleblower

He had all these bird calls,

so I kept my distance.

All these hand-to-mouth tricks 

that came out in different octaves

as though metallurgy was old hat 

and the witch trials were hanging 

all the wrong charlatans. 

And once when we were drunk on beer,

I told him that if he had a job, he’d be a whistleblower.

Just like one of those fancy Nancys on the news each night

who blow a hole wide open in the side of the hull of everything 

and watch it sink from a safe distance away.

And raising hands to mouth, 

he called some birds over to perch

on the neighbouring trees.

And I thought of poor old Tippi Hedren 

getting her eyes pecked out 

all over again.

***

Antique Shopping

She tells me I am not getting any younger

even though I am a full year her junior.

I decide to let such things as fact fall by the wayside 

which is what a man must do if he wants to avoid headaches.

With my fingers,

I run her hair behind her ears, 

tell her she has the milk-white tits of a Penthouse centerfold,  

just like the first time I sucked 

on them.  

She seems to like that as most any woman would.

To be desired.

You’re still not getting any younger, she giggles 

after some moments of French kissing.

I push her face away 

with the palm of my hand

and she loves that 

most of all.

***

Archival Footage

of the Chicago World’s Fair

on PBS

and I find myself pouring over the gathered crowds

wondering which of them decided to stay 

at 601-603 West 63rd Street

with H.H. Holmes in his hotel of horrors 

and never came back.

Now that’s a real odd fellow,

let me tell you.

Enterprising as only an American can be.

Even polishing and selling off the skeletons of the deceased

to the schools of medicine for a profit.

But there are always concerns more present.

The dead making way for the living.

An expired bus pass 

you hope the rush hour driver is too busy

to notice.

A humming refrigerator on the fritz.

Nothing to drink 

when you want to get drunk 

and nothing else.

***

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Setu, May 2022