Plague. by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Imagine when the plague comes,

he said.

What plague?

I asked.

THE PLAGUE!

he bellowed.

YOU KNOW, THE PLAGUE!

His eyes so wide

they were straining.

I could see new worlds

as he itched his arms

in a panic.

You mean that plague that happened last month?

I asked.

He said he meant the big one,

the one that was coming.

Oh, that one,

I smiled.

That one,

he said.

Just then

some kid fell out of a tree

and started wailing.

My friend the plague

rushing over to

help.

Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a male gigolo for hire.  Presently residing along the sunny shores of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba where he spends his days drinking discount Tequila and accusing chemtrails of being "sky farts."  His work can be found both in print and online in such joints as: The Rye Whiskey Review, The Dope Fiend Daily, Outlaw Poetry Network, Horror Sleaze Trash, and Under The Bleachers.