Issue No. 11, Winter 2014

Brian Robert Flynn

I used to be a living room.
Cream carpet, all

leather and mahogany,
cream stretching from

the front door to the kitchen.
The abutting

foyer’s quite easygoing;
always was and

still is, whether or not she’s
an entryway

(yet the threshold role rather
suits her smile).

Again, we’re all of the earth.
The kitchen’s plot

remains scorched, a recycling.
Rain turning to

snow means the workmen might not
show for some time.

The dining room adjacent
has been silent

for weeks. He gets too attached.
Always caught up

in the middle—his luck of

if not vice-versa’s bad stroke.
We’re all stuck, but

he takes it personally.
I guess living’s

my destiny, plotted so
close to the road.

The road’s a dignified friend,
more outgoing

than the rest, although I think
she’d prefer grass

to her wear. I can’t recall
when the road came

or if she was always there.

isn’t easy. It’s the same
formula as

forgetting, though. Prior to
living I was

dining and before dining
an old graveyard,

which I still am. We all are
and a toilet.

Before that I was nothing.

Originally from Denver, Brian Robert Flynn is currently breathing the poetry and fiction of Washington, DC. His work has appeared in Banango Street, Litro Magazine, RiverLit, and theNewerYork.