Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. ― Carl Sandburg

---

E Z P Z

 

Never mind the cosmos, have you

ever seen rushing suitcases wheeled frantically

through downtown bus terminals?

Picked up and dragged against the smug face of gravity

when they will not wheel fast enough.

Crying babies burped into a new silence.

The way the careless bus driver pulls away

from the curb as if leaving a faith he can no longer

afford to entertain.  Both financially and spiritually.

Unsympathetic exhaust shooting out of the top

of the 5:15 to Toronto.  Simple as that.

E Z P Z.  Past a billboard that warns of dirty

needles if you are thinking of getting

a tattoo.  The late comers forced to wait

an extra two hours before their next chance

to get out of dodge.

****

Taylor made

 

a mail slot

with an old motorbike

helmet

with a visor you could

throw up and down

and he rounded off

his door

to meet the angle

of the helmet

which he then screwed

into the door

and sanded down the edges

and spray painted

the word: MAIL

in red

over the top

of the helmet

so that his mailman

would understand the

process and appreciate

a different look

 

and someone called

the city

and complained,

but the by-law officer

quite liked it

 

if you are to hear

Taylor’s telling

of the story

which could be

the truth

or something

else,

 

but it’s a good yarn

regardless,

and he still has

the helmet.

****

 Necromancers of the Elderly Unite!

 

They held this meeting

which was intended to be anonymous

just like the gamblers and alcoholics do,

but their colourful robes were a giveaway

and the long white beards that hugged

their faces like biological children,

one guy took public transit there

and started explaining protection circles

to the driver.  He never made it, but most of

the others did.  And the usual Wiccan guy

was home with the flu, so they got the gambling

therapist to stand in.  And the room quickly turned,

and they could cast spells which made him worry

to no end, the cheese platter raided like the beaches

at Normandy.

---

Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, andThe Oklahoma Review.

Published posts on Two Drops of Ink:

1) Poetry Break by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

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