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| Ryan Quinn Flanagan |
The Bank Teller
The bank teller
has metal clasps
for hands.
Even though
the money has never
been her own.
Still, she clutches it close,
before counting down
to the dollar.
A pained smile
when you leave
with all that money
she wants back.
***
Dark Slats
The dark slats
of the fenceline
were always so ugly.
You become ugly.
With that around you
all the time.
Choking out
the pretty moments,
and there were
some.
But the slats stay with you
long after the fence
is gone.
***
Choir
The choir erupts.
We sing along.
Revelers
in the faith.
***
Birds Kept Hitting the House
Birds kept hitting the house.
Like they couldn't see us.
Not at all like the other houses,
that never got hit.
I began to think
that we weren't
even there.
We could have been anywhere.
The birds hitting something
else entirely.
***
Turning the Tide
I am making my way through box store aisles
with my wife.
Pushing a cart with a bum wheel.
Seems everything is falling apart these days.
Food stuffs with shortened expiry dates,
the packages torn.
Cans knocked in like the parking lot
fender benders outside.
But we are inside the great metal cocoon.
Passing by the end cap of the detergent aisle
when I walk up to the Tide display
and turn one of the bright orange jugs backwards.
"Look dear, I'm turning the tide,"
I say.
"I gotta make something happen."
"Really?"
my wife says.
Turning it back, label out.
So that if anything is going to happen,
it won't happen today.
***
I love all Ryan's poems, a wry sense of humour, imagery and well-writen.
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