Gratuity Rex
He told his driver to take him to the airport
and since he was the driver
he drove to the airport
and he thought about tipping the driver
the conversation was friendly
enough
but something about the driver irked him
some people just don’t get on
so he decided to be polite
but firm
unloading his own bags
from the trunk
and since the airplane would not be invented
for another half century
he had to sit in the airport terminal
for quite a while
before his
flight.
Retreat
There is a tiny hole in the wall
and I take off all my clothes
and climb into it
and it is hard to move
but I have never been claustrophobic
in small spaces
as I squeeze and winch and turn
back towards the hole
peering out
to notice a perfect hairy bearded representation
of myself
hunched over the keyboard
typing a poem
perhaps
that may look a lot like
this one.
Flying Car
There was a flying car
that looked just like a bird;
feathers, beak, and talon –
the whole thing,
but everyone knew it was a car
and not a bird
because it was said there was
a tiny driver inside
with a seatbelt made of blood
and tinted windshield eyes,
making his way around the world
in record time
with a giant brown worm
in his mouth.
That Afternoon I Spent as Snow
the
snow
fell
from
the
roof
and
I
yelled
the
whole
way
down.
Backpack
The mines had closed down,
the foundry too
jobs were scarce
so when the opportunity
presented itself
he pounced,
jumping on the backs
of complete strangers
in the street
who would grow angry
with many threats of violence
because they did not understand
that you take work wherever you can find it,
and just how hard it is to be a backpack
when you are so used to
being a human.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. 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, and The Oklahoma Review.