Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Coin Laundry by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

I walk over to the coin laundry
without a name
down the street
to listen to the spinning
dry cycles.


Arms crossed
eyes closed
falling asleep in a
cracked blue bucket
seat by the
door.


It is cheaper than cable.


And the girls from the peeler joint
next door come by to wash the cum
out of their dainties.


They talk about everything.
I am almost sleeping, but it is
good company.


When the machines stop
I get up and leave.


Walk home in the rain.


Past the beggars
with their hands out
shaking a single wet polystyrene cup
out of its last black magic.



About Ryan Quinn Flanagan:


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, Horror Sleaze Trash, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

1 comment:

  1. Don't know if I was suppose to feel sad after reading this poem but that's how I felt for the guy finding comfort at the coin laundry. Great one! Thanks Ryan Quinn Flanagan!

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