by Ryan Quinn Flanagan
I can hear the feet of the ladder squeaking up each metal wrung,
this is roofing, but you got to imagine painting love handles
into the waiting Sistine was not easy either, the nail gun
in mid–pounce like some industrial-sized panther never caught
on camera, drill bits and many hammers playing whack-a-mole
26 ft. above hard gravity; Ben Franklin searching out alien life
in Tommy Jefferson’s secret pantry which is why I have decided
to be Canadian well beyond my birth, to frequent my dead
grandfather’s flashlight and name all the shadow puppets
I see after types of weatherproof shingles that come with
a 15-year warranty; Hollywood can’t even give you fifteen
months, so that the wedding registrar’s office becomes
life in the fast lane even though Don Henley looks like
Blake Shelton on parole and the Eagles haven’t had
a hit since 1979.
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: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Cultural Weekly, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.