Soot in the Window
Do you remember your last love?
I know of soot in the window like gangly stockinged legs
peering down upon the avenues.
Blowing failed smoke rings into the stratosphere.
Do you get naked in change rooms?
The mirrors are there to judge you because
the church couldn’t make it.
Those loud plastic hangers that seem to jostle
Do you stand on the corner feeling most awkward?
Wondering how painted street walkers pull it off
with such ease.
The beeping sound the lights make so the city
can pretend it cares about the blind.
People with dandruff are too eager to share.
I sit with them on the bus and lumber down the road sideways.
Pretending to read the advertisements and all
their stupid phone numbers.
I wish I was desperate.
Then it would show I cared.
I am glad I am not in Europe
or we’d all be waiters.
Taking orders for the apocalypse
when it isn’t even on the menu.
Bio: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Punk Noir Magazine, In Between Hangovers, Gutter Eloquence, The Dope Fiend Daily, and The Rye Whiskey Review.