Crapper

We meet in the hallway.
He coughs a thick cloud of smoke
in my face:

hey, where’s the crapper?

Turn around, I say,
you can’t miss it.

He actually turns around
into the wall.

Hey –

I am already out the door
and into a parking lot
full of hate.

The cars all inserted sideways
regardless of space
like jagged prison shanks
that will kill you if you pull
them out.

And I watch some horndog drunk
try to proposition housekeeping
even though she is fat and an illegal
who landed this job because
she does not understand
anything.

And there I am.
Beyond Google Earth.

Enjoying the sun on my face
after three days of rain.

And once on the avenues,
you get lost in the city again.

The way everything stays open
like a faulty envelope.

You lookin’ fer a good time, sugar?
some wobbling animal print banner
for syphilis sneers.

I am a good time!
I say.

And the paper is full of lies
that aren’t nearly as good as my own.

They come up with new ones every day.

Sitting in a locked yellow box
that may as well be
a nunnery.

And I stop off at this Cuban place for lunch.
They hate Castro.
If you give them your business they assume
you hate Castro too.

Their food is spicy and cheap
so that it hurts going down
but never pains the
pockets.

And they have this strange drink there
that is kinda like soda
but without all that carbonation.

It settles the stomach.
Which is why I am there.

A donation box for:
The Friends of Cuba
by the cash.

And always some over
enthusiastic music.

Beside the tobacconist
who went out of business
so soccer moms could do stomach
crunches in public.

How far we have come.
Probably a few miles.

The seagulls in the park
still fighting over
worms.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian born author presently residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario Canada. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as The New York Quarterly, Windsor Review, Vallum, The Antigonish Review, CV2, Horror Sleaze Trash, Evergreen Review, Your One Phone Call and In Between Hangovers.