He smiled at me
and I could tell by the way he smiled
that there was a bomb planted
in my esophagus,
probably while I slept
the room key passed along
by spooks and well placed sympathizers
and so we shook hands firmly
and talked for some minutes
in the hall by the elevator,
agreeing to meet up
for dinner,
then I went back to my room
locked the door behind me
and sat in the dark
bent over the cold off white porcelain
with finger down
throat
I started
purging.Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his other half and mounds of snow. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
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