Homemade Cookies and Gin
She's always been a caution,
Aunt Matilda has,
what with her passion
for the young man
she lured home with
homemade cookies
and gin to mow
her spacious lawn
this summer afternoon
in the oven of 3 p.m.
She watches Jack
through the curtain
of her picture window
as his sweat drips
in rivulets
like Uncle Tim's.
Tim's been dead
twenty years now
but Aunt Matilda
sees him mowing
through the curtain
as she sips warm gin.
She keeps his martini
in his jelly glass.
She needs ice,
a pat on her fanny,
a grin from Uncle Tim.
The End Is Near
The streets are clear,
Gramps admits,
but the intersections
are a problem.
The intersections
of his knees and hips
scream about the years
they've had to tote
the silo of his torso.
His joyful pastor
every Sunday screams,
"The End is Near!"
and Gramps agrees
although he prays
a diet might delay it.
Vertigo with a Touch of Syncope
Where did I go? I don't know
so I look around and see my wife
with the dogs and kids.
Not one of them sees me.
Recliner's empty. So's the bed.
I must be somewhere; I always am.
Barber claims he saw me yesterday
and I won't need another trim
for a month or more.
Dentist says I have no teeth to fix,
that I should keep gummin' it,
so why would I go there?
Maybe I'll call my sister who knows
nothing about me now.
We haven't talked in 20 years.
When no one's in the mirror
they sometimes find me
behind the couch chompin'
on a Dagwood sandwich
but this time it's different.
Where am I? Heaven? Hell?
Somewhere in between?
I hear Hoagy on the piano
playing "Georgia on My Mind."
Text me on a cloud
if he plays "Stardust."
The drinks will be on me
for everyone in the house.
------------------------------
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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