If We Were Any More East We’d Be Swimming in the Atlantic by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

This is the Wild West,
the man beside me mutters to no one.
We are on bus driving though the state
of Delaware at night.
There are no other seats so I am stuck
with the mutterer.
Spit shining the glass from his window seat
while I pretend to be sleeping
and/or dead in the seat
next to him.
Billy the Kid died in these parts,
the man mutters again nostalgically.
Nudging me for acknowledgement
but this is not my first rodeo.
Mustering a fart for the ages
I let it go.
One of those loud and repetitive Gatling gun offerings
that I’ve been holding in since Buffalo.
That sound as though they are tearing your pants in half
the same way the morgue scalpel opens up
some stiff on the slab.
The stink is overpowering.
The man does not talk anymore.
Now he is stuck with me
for the next 500
miles.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan Black & White

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a happily unmarried proud father of none. His work can be found both in print and online. He has an affinity for dragonflies, discount tequila, and all things sarcastic.

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