Tuesday, March 1, 2022






A Gathering Crowd

 A Gathering Wind


Some with masks, others with grammatically

questionable placards raised in the air,

mingling in the January cold by the steps

outside city hall; a gathering crowd, a gathering wind,

mostly hot air in spite of the winter season;

toques, mitts, those bubble jackets that make

everyone look like the Michelin Man

and no one will be heard and nothing will change,

not even the weather unless you are willing

to wait a few months.


Penny Stocks

the shelves

after store hours,

insists her Serbian husband

is just firm,

has nothing to do with

fresh bruises

and she’s a hard worker,

never missed a single shift

in over four years,

late to the lunchroom

with that dented silver thermos

and something microwavable

that smells god awful,

but she claims her children

love it so you know

where you can go

even if you have somewhere

else to be.


Even The Lazy Gangplank Jumping Ship


All those basement apartments

I lived in,

many as unfinished as me,

and I start to think rats out of all

the backed up sewers,

even the lazy gangplank jumping ship

as an outmoded form of death looking

for amnesty while the getting is as good

as it has been if you are to believe

those truth and reconciliation people

from the tired provinces that drink too

much and think too little

which is a good problem to have

if anyone is trying to look for problems

these days at all.




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, Our Poetry Archive, Setu, Literary Yard, and The Oklahoma Review.

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