Poem: Ceiling

By: Ryan Quinn Flanagan


There is a ceiling to everything.
Once you look up from the floor it is there.
Some are vaulted to provide the illusion of progress.
Most are simple plaster stained with nicotine
and water damage.

This one above me now is an outdated popcorn style
and cracking.
It reminds me of myself in a way that
does not make me feel good.

When the sports people talk of a ceiling,
they are talking about how raw a given prospect is,
and what their potential at the next level
might be.

The light in the middle of my ceiling no longer works.
There are many dead flies in it decomposing.

What is your ceiling like?
Look up right now and tell me.


Categories: Poetry

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