Shit Cloud
The homeless guy
at the base of King Street
is huddled under a ratty
sleeping bag.
Has a portable heater
under there to
stay warm.
He has shit himself
and the fan from the heater
blows a giant shit cloud
towards the people standing
at the nearby intersection
waiting for the light.
It gets into their nice coats,
saturating the fabric.
When they go to dinner later,
they will wonder about
that smell.
Turning up their noses
at the other patrons.
Blaming the waiter
for seating them right next
to the bathrooms.
Or perhaps,
it’s coming from the
kitchen.
You know
they just pay off
the health inspectors.
For that little green checkmark
in the window.
No telling what’s really
going on behind closed doors.
It’s the Wild West
back there.
Crashing plates
and arguments in
tongues.
Even the mice
are shitting themselves
in record numbers
these days.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author who lives in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work has been published both in print and online in such places as: The New York Quarterly, Red Fez, Evergreen Review, The Literary Underground, Horror Sleaze Trash, Rusty Truck, Zygote in my Coffee and The Oklahoma Review. He enjoys listening to the blues and cruising down the TransCanada in his big blacked out truck.
