Raspberry Hives
The ancient man
with raspberry hives
on his cheeks
since childhood
will live alone
no longer.
He'll marry, he says,
the first woman who'll have him.
Till now
he has wanted
to die
as he's lived,
alone in his room
with the radio playing,
the water in the bathtub
dripping.
The drone of hours,
however, has become
the drone of years
and the ancient man
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Dr. Donohue
If you can't believe Dr. Donohue
in his syndicated column
when he addresses matters medical,
then 'whom, ' as my mother
would have said, 'can you believe? '
Fair enough, I thought.
And so when recently the doctor told
a reader not to worry
even though her 'stools float, '
I took comfort.
Apparently, she had read
that floating stools are symptomatic
of a strange condition often dangerous.
I hope Dr. Donohue is right
because if not, I've got a problem.
Not all my stools float, but the lunkers do.
And what if on a given day a lunker leaps
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Blinking Like Ferrets
I've been too busy
the last two years to chat
with anyone in the office.
Today, however, I pause
at the pencil sharpener
while my co-workers
calculate and jot.
It makes no difference, you see,
if I remain silent until retirement
or if suddenly I start talking again.
All we must remember is
that we decay together,
that this charade
we give ourselves to
doesn't require that we speak,
that all we must do, really,
is calculate and jot.
If we calculate well,
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Straight in His Caneback Chair
Ireland to America, long ago
In this Kerryman's eyes
big ships sail
and lighthouses flicker
light years away.
He's 70 today and sits
tombstone straight
in his caneback chair,
waves at a flake
hanging from his nose,
misses and curses.
It's his first curse of the day
and he's ready for anything,
an ancient ram braced for the British
climbing through the mist.
His children, parents themselves now,
sit in his parlor, silent around him.
When they hear his first curse,
they know it's 20 years earlier
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Mabel and Walt
Mabel and Walt were lovers lying down,
but standing up or sitting around,
they hated each other
even when both were sober.
The kids will vouch for that
provided you can find them
these many decades later.
I saw those kids 30 years ago,
on a gray Thanksgiving Day,
scattering like wasps from a hive
blown from an eave by a storm.
They ran in different directions
far from their ancient trailer.
Wherever they went
no one seems to know.
But now they'll turn up,
you can bet on that,
once they find out Mabel
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Take Me to the Taxidermist
I told my wife the other night
when she came back to bed
my feet were cold so now's
the time for me to tell her
not to bury me or burn me
or give my body to science.
Take me to the taxidermist
and have him dress me in
Cary Grant's tuxedo, a pair
of paten leather shoes
from Fred Astaire and a
straw hat from Chevalier.
Once I'm a Hollywood star,
stand me in the garden with
that chorus line of blondes,
brunettes and redheads
I stationed there the day she
flew home to Mother in a snit.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Girls in Steno,1970
When it's break time
the girls all walk together,
cigarette-protector cases
clasped between their index
tapers and their thumbs.
On each girl's fingers glow
iridescent lacquers.
When break time nears,
they peek at each other,
twinkle, giggle, nod.
When break time comes,
a bell rings and the girls rise
like Lazarus. High on heels
they click in couples down the hall
to fill an elevator.
They get off at One. There
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Caseworker Takes Notes
I was there the day
there trickled down the wall
of an old man's room one roach
that stopped across
a canyon in the plaster till
the old man's elevated slipper fell.
The roach absorbed the blow
and as though perforated for that purpose
dissolved into an archipelago.
The old man looked at me
and patiently explained, 'Despite my
constant smacking of its brethren
one roach each day will trickle down that wall
and pause and pose as if to say,
'Go ahead and smack me, that's okay.' '
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Maggie and Max
Our son married a flibbertygibbet,
my wife says, and I agree,
but he loves Maggie very much
so I say let's keep quiet.
It's not our place to criticize.
Max is 33, and not long
back from Iraq.
I remind my wife
that Maggie can cook
better than most
so let's give her a chance.
Max works two jobs
and he's never home.
Maggie's young.
Maybe the baby will help
but I doubt it.
Too bad Maggie
didn't take to quilting,
my wife points out.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Death Has Dominion
Officer Burks brings Max
the Bloodhound
into the alley
and Max immediately
strains at his leash.
He's onto the scent
of a killer.
Nose to the gravel,
Max sniffs back and forth,
slobber dripping
from his hammock lips,
his head never rising.
Burks knows Max
will corner the killer,
but not so fast.
He almost trips when
Max breaks his leash
and charges forward,
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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