By Ryan Quinn Flanagan
The dancing bear does circus tricks,
piñatas on the cover of S&M Monthly,
and my days are filled with little more
than laying here
staring at the ceiling
waiting for the muse to arrive
with the fire.
Skipping Rosetta stones across
the backs of the ages.
There are large craters in the couch upholstery
from where the heels of my idleness
have come to rest for far too long.
I run my hands across the contours
of another wasted moon landing
for it to get dark.
The dancing bear mauls a midget,
shadows dance across my walls;
sometimes a foxtrot
never a waltz.