An Earthquake in the Chest
The demise of Mr. Wise came as no surprise
to the clerks in his department,
those weathered women who for years
had borne his scorn so well.
The story goes that Mr. Wise that day,
balancing his tray at lunch,
stepped lightly past
the puddings, pies and cakes
and pitched across his broth.
Two feet from the register, he dropped,
a humpback suddenly ashore.
Behind him in the line was Mrs. Burke,
who saw her boss's water break.
She knew right then
there was nothing she could do.
After all, as everyone could see,
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Lemon Underwear
The New Morse Hotel
Chicago, circa 1970
What if after Browne has gone
one of us discovers who Browne was,
leads the rally to his room before
the maid has time to broom the webs,
retrieve from underneath the bed
the sweat-stiff socks, the lemon underwear?
What if before he leaves Browne scrawls
across the dresser’s dust: “I have leased
new quarters and have gone to them.
Don’t give the clothes you find here to the poor.
Don’t burn the books. Beware the next
who rents this room, who leaves it only after dark,
who screams if the maid knocks once
to ask if she may clean. When he arrives
have four men bear him, belly down, downstairs.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Unintelligent Design
An hour a day,
sometimes more,
I chipped away
with mallet and chisel
on a block of marble
I found in Carrara
and shipped to New York
on the deck of a trawler.
I offered the marble
to a famous sculptor
who told me he works
in granite only
so I grabbed his beret
and one of his smocks
and said I'd sculpt
the block myself
with whittling skills
picked up as a kid
from a drunken uncle
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Miss Lakeishia Sings The Blues
Listen, mister, you're a guest
at the Night Owl Club
so you can sit here
all night long, tip me
after every song,
buy me scotch
till the final gong
but none of that will help.
You'll still go home alone
unless some other lady has a need
to make her rent
and sees the opportunity
you offer. It won't be me;
I can't be bothered.
I need a different kind of man,
a man who'll hug me tighter
than my panties can,
a big ole man
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Letter to Annie Far Away
Every evening,
up in my rooom,
I try to finish a poem
but Chicago is hot
and it's better outside,
strolling along the Lake
or driving anywhere
with the windows down.
You sound good,
if undecided about things.
My life gets better
no matter how hard I try
to make it worse.
No medicine
for a month now;
no poems, either.
I can't recall my last
spontaneous erection.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Staff Meeting at Auschwitz
We dare not tell
the Fuehrer that
we failed to get
the rabbi's wife
to tell us where
the rabbi is so
now we have to
call the plumber.
Tell Old Franz
to bring his drill.
He has a way
with women.
Old Franz
will have to
rod this lady out
so we can ask her
once again
where the rabbi is
and if she still
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Man at the Bus Stop on Halloween
The others, of course,
are more rabid than he
but less apt to show it.
Whenever he strikes,
he never romps off.
He stands with the wrist
that he's snatched
from the lady
tight in his teeth
as he waits with a smile
for the wagon.
He's one of the few
wrist-snatchers still
on the streets of Chicago,
and he makes his rounds
in old tennies.
His technique is simple:
He dives for the purse hand,
gives it a whack, and severs
the wrist without slobber,
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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In Break Formation
The indications used to come
like movie fighter planes in break
formation, one by one, the perfect
plummet, down and out. This time they’re
slower. But after supper, when I hear her
in the kitchen hum again, hum higher,
higher, till my ears are numb,
I remember how it was
the last time: how she hummed
to Aramaic peaks, flung
supper plates across the kitchen
till I brought her by the shoulders
humming to the chair.
I remember how the final days
her eyelids, operating on their own,
rose and fell, how she strolled
among the children, winding tractors,
hugging dolls, how finally
I phoned and had them come again,
how I walked behind them
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Pedro, Pablo and Little José
I have spent an hour
lying in the sun
on Joe Brickle's farm
waiting for Pedro and Pablo
to fetch Little José
with his sickle and scythe
to cut down the high grass
so Pedro and Pablo
can gun their mowers
over the cowlicks.
After Joe Brickle died
the grass on his farm
soared to the sky.
His goats ate it all
till his son flew home
and trucked all the goats
to the slaughterhouse.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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Feline in Winter
Some days you think the cat will stay till summer comes,
this Prodigal Son you've fed for years, this feral cat
who comes and goes and comes again when hunger strikes.
But he just eats and leaves your porch,
despite the pillows plumped for a Sultan's duff.
He disappears in falling snow
only to appear again outside your door at dawn,
his green eyes dancing when he sees you bring
his mound of kibble, topped with tuna,
and his bowl of milk. Some days he mounts
the pillows for a nap. At noon, however,
he begins to yowl. He wants out again
to parade triumphant down the walk,
his tail an exclamation point. He romps
across the snow and fits beneath the fence.
He's gone again. Out of sight.
He plans to spend another evening
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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