Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Poem for a Man Who Fucks the Ice Fishing Hole

Was it the auger drilling down that did it for you?
Surely it couldn’t have been these freezing temperatures,
so many things become an indoor sport up in these parts.
So imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon you this morning.
Watched you face down, pants around the ankles.  Slamming into the ice.
Slurring your dirty talk across a trackless waste.
You think you’d be alone for such activities, but you’d be wrong.
And now, there is this poem for a man who fucks the ice fishing hole.
Making up with vigour, what he lacks in style points.
A few of his swimmers turning the local ice fishing derby on its head.
Mayor Kickbacks is going to have to introduce new standards.
Though this one seems pretty locked to the cause.