Sunday, August 19, 2018
Farmer’s Market. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
I am checking out the local Farmer’s Market
even though I have not eaten a single fruit or vegetable
in over three years.
There is whiskey on my breath
and I have not been to
This woman offers me an apple
and I yell: EVE!
She retreats inside her kiosk
and now everyone is
looking at me.
I had promised myself I would be discreet.
Try to fit in with the locals.
Not blink so much.
A cop car slows and cruises by.
I decide to make my way to a skate park
a few streets over.
The kids there can do some amazing things.
And there is a bathroom you can use.
The junkies use it to shoot up,
but I plan on using it the good old
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 Rye Whiskey Review, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily and In Between Hangovers.
Every knock I here I think it’s you left your over night bag on the floor half zipped open like you were here the bed is a lonely place...