by Michael Flanagan

The trees stand in the rain, full of movement.
The clouded sky lets loose with the sound
of replenishment, the sidewalks dark with it.
Time remains strictly a concept. In spite of that
I feel further behind places I want to be, sense
the end of roads I'll be allowed to know. Still
I remember the strident wonder built into
the smell of an oiled baseball mitt, the glove
taken from a box in a closet when spring arrives.
With luck I'll wake into morning. The world will
unfold all over me as I try for everything again.

Michael Flanagan was born in the Bronx. N.Y. and raised in the New York Metropolitan area. His work has appeared in many small press periodicals across the country, most recently, Nerve Cowboy, Paterson Literary Review, Trajectory and New York Quarterly. His chapbook, A Million Years Gone is available from Nerve Cowboy’s Liquid Paper Press.


It does not rhyme, how can it be a poem?
Ryan Snyder, Apr 30, 2018