By Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She tells me she woke up out of a dead sleep,
that she feared it would be like last night,
but she reached over and felt my side of the bed
still warm so she knew it was nothing like
last night.

The snooker boys call their shots
which would be half impressive if their
tables were even a tenth as long
as the days have been of late.

Even the money on the table
is crumpled up into a ball.


The preacher read from the same book everyday
and never got bored so I was pretty sure he
wasn’t reading Dickens.

I don’t like to aloud.
My voice steals everything
and leaves nothing for my mind.


I have endured a hard fall for art
though the frescos hold no more relief
for me than a solid sleep


How would you describe yourself?
Broken glass under a shattered sky.
That’s sad.
Is it?

He looked like he wanted to say something.
It never came.

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, The Academy of the Heart and Mind, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

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