Poetry: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

The Break Dancers

The break dancers 

in the park 

are spinning on their

heads.

A long silver ghetto-blaster

on the park bench

just feet away.

Near the pigeon shit drops

that always show up 

at the wrong time.

The mugger bushes 

all pushed to the side.

That garbage bin 

full of dirty syringes 

like junk rockets 

just back from 

space.

*** 

Bowling Alley Shoes

Imagine 

smelling like everyone at the same time.

Never yourself, but an amalgam of stenches.

Rented out like the eternal free agent.

And living in a bowling alley.

Not above a bowling alley, but in one.

Which would seem fun at first, but quickly 

lose its lustre.  What racket — the constant crashing 

of pins, of jammed and aging machinery. 

And you, passed around to complete strangers.

Numbered like the horses at the track.

But no one is excited to bet on you.

Just stick their feet in, and pull on your laces.

***

Poem for a Man Who Thinks He is a Bike

They don't allow any sharps on the floor

at the psyche ward,

and here comes this poem

for a man who thinks he is a bike,

crawling down the hall

with a tire pump protruding

from his ass,

imploring the nurses to hop on

and take him for 

a ride.

***

Most Is A Must

She crawls into my dreams

and it's Fata Morgana 

for weeks.

Dancing spiders 

in toreador thunder.

Brains from the 

thinking thieves.

Most is a must, 

I know these crippling twin truths

of sorrow and wonder.

And great Ramses 

waxing his own war chariot, 

what a naughty sun-drenched boy

I've come to be.

The cheering ends.

There is no need for pom poms.

Pyramids will be built the traditional way,

and no longer at sporting events.

A capstone that refused

to smile.

***

Building a Sandcastle 

The children start most naturally with the turrets.

Dumping inverted pails of sand 

at the four corners.

Then come the walls

that must be fashioned by hand.

Two boys and a little girl,

likely their sister.

Building a sandcastle 

while their parents argue over unnamed things

some feet away.

The destruction of one,

and the construction of the other.

A trench dug around the perimeter 

of the sandcastle. 

The moat quickly flooded 

by a rising waterline.

The children holler with a busied joy, 

while sun-drunk vacationers shift and yawn

on patterned towels.

And the sandcastle must be guarded.

Green plastic army figures

in various fighting positions.

There is a battle for the beach

that sleepy sunburns 

can't help but win.

***

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Setu, July 2025