five poems
by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
The Raspberry Danish Girl
at One King West
is making eyes,
looks at the ring
on my finger
as she hands me
two raspberry Danishes
in a brown paper bag.
She is noticeably Russian,
a bad dye job, washed out red.
"I think the Russian girl behind the cash
wants to make me borscht,"
I smile and tell my wife.
"Nyet," I say. "No borscht!"
My wife stirs her coffee
by the window,
staring off into sprawling oblivion.
A morning dog walker
in a blue bubble jacket
with his head in a phone.
Chin Music
Baseball is hardly interesting,
but I love me some good chin music
at the top of the order,
heated rivals on the back end of a double-header,
tired of seeing and hearing about each other,
jockeying for a spot in the October dance,
and the ace on the mound has already seen
Joe Hero go yard, doesn't want anybody hugging
the plate, launches a heater straight at the head
that causes the batter to fall back out of the box.
Not to be outdone, the pitcher on the other side
is out for revenge. Back-to-back stubble strafers,
and a long stare of mean-mugged conceit. Now playing matador
to the bull that charges the mound. The dugouts cleared
and the mascots trading punches. Irate managers
kicking dirt at umpires that toss them with a single
emphatic gesture. Only thing I like about baseball.
The rest is balls on base and waving paunches
trying to advance the runner in a slow war of attrition
with sponsors.
Lucky Card
He pulled it from the deck,
held it up
and asked if it was
my lucky card.
"It's the 4 of clubs,"
I said.
"When's the last time the four of clubs
was lucky for anyone?"
He turned the card over
and looked at it.
"Not your card?"
"Not my card,"
I smiled.
He promised
to do the trick later
when he got home
from work.
I knew he was stalling for time,
but I was happy to
play along.
Perhaps
he'd learn all the
tricks.
Retire
to a community
of slippery card sharks
and lonely
nudists.
Dollar Store Pregnancy Test
We are at the Dollar Store
before the upcoming long weekend.
The line for the cash is long
and full of crazy.
I notice a double-sided display near the checkout.
Drink mixers on one side and pregnancy tests on the other.
I show my wife and she laughs.
“Well, one usually leads to the other.”
“I guess they are well-prepared,”
I say.
“Don’t know if I’d trust those dollar store pregnancy tests,”
my wife says.
“Great,”
I say.
“Now there will be more humans
and the lines will be longer.”
There are two cashiers on.
One seems as though she will kill herself
as soon as she gets home.
The other appears strangely happy.
“Maybe I should pee on the stick,”
I say.
“You’d probably be pregnant with your luck,”
my wife laughs.
“No drink mixers for you,”
I say much louder than I planned.
“I’m not letting you get me pregnant!”
The suicidal cashier looks up
from her drudgery.
Many in line step forward uneasily.
My wife scratches her head
as though a thousand mosquitoes
just bit her there.
Kinks and Coolers
The latch on the back of the door was an alligator locking its jaw.
Nothing would be getting in, not even code words on the whisper.
The world outside had leant itself well to kinks and coolers.
Mountains that seemed half-traversable if you drank enough.
The tears of raging gloom puppies, I detested those tears most of all.
All the holes punched in the wall had been spackled over.
An orange shag run through naked toes like slicing bullet trains.
The drug zombies lurched passed the window,
just back from Needle Park.
A fan in the bathroom spewing diphtheria angels
in the dark.
Photo of Ryan Quinn Flanagan
BIO: Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Blood + Honey, Rusty Truck, Trailer Park Quarterly, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Evergreen Review, Red Fez, The Literary Underground, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Blue Collar Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.