Poem: Wet Suit

By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan

wetsuit

I stood outside the hockshop
along Richmond
watching the many old men come
and go.

Departing as I once did, one after the other,
their heads lowered in their chests
even though it wasn’t cold,
ashamed in some way.

To be taken.

The world of manicures
and parallel parking
all around you.

Ashamed of pawning their dead wife’s wedding ring,
their last few keepsakes in hock
for a few bottles of scotch
that would see them through
the month.

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