Another fight in the street, who’s winning?
I slip out the side door of the bar.
Into a slurry less than grand commotion.
Having arrived mid-punch.
Missing all the silly foreplay.
Another fight in the street, who’s winning?
A raft of loudmouths gathered round.
All sold on the loud cluck.
The veiny one on steroids getting the better
of his shorter, less veiny steroid friend.
The girls on the walk screeching for fresh blood.
With their phones out so that I have to push past.
Then a fight between a couple of the girls
breaks out.
They don’t call this the entertainment district
for nothing.
©2021 Ryan Quinn Flanagan All rights reserved.
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Cajun Mutt Press, Outlaw Poetry Network, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.
I loved this down in the dirt of reality kind of missive. The poem moves like a boxer who ballroom dances: it swings and it sweeps. It reminds me of Charles Bukowski at his best, and I mean that in a good way. It does ring true as well, that sometimes the audience for a street fight is almost as interesting a subject as the street fight itself, and they do sometimes get into their own altercation don’t they? Everything moves smoothly to the last line, a summation, a punchline, both.
Thanks so much David! I love your summation. Yes, have seen this happen too many times to count and the audience almost always does this.