Music Stand, Through Autumn Window by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Music Stand, Through Autumn Window

Blitheful as these rudderless days may seem, 
there is a candor lost for which most are vaguely thankful – 
when doing something ethically in an unethical manner, it still feels wrong. 
It is the mechanics of the act, not the motives of the intention. 
But I can hardly grouse, for I find myself wandering out among the tall weeds once again.  
Everything has flown south this time of year, 
a willing earful most of all.   

Gentlemen riders of cousinly plagues bring willful steed to blinders 
and it is just in passing that the hurt in my legs lessens, 
slowing to ogle a shingle-less roof in disrepair,   
this music stand, through autumn window that holds 
such cursory attentions; an open red music book at the ready, 
both teacher and student lost to rambunctious absenteeism. 

Have you greeted the fallow as uncultivated land? 
Saved such cruelties like pixie-clipped coupons on the sly? 
I have no tears or music, just this returning gimp of pain. 
No one buys local when they are forced to look in the mirror. 



Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Fixator Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.

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