Donal Mahoney- Two Poems

The Deli On Granville

I lived in the attic back then,

and late those evenings I had to study

and couldn't afford to go drinking

I'd run down to the deli and buy

bagels and smoked lox.

I'd watch the lame son

wrap each item in white paper

while his father, coughing at the register,

pointed to the cans on the wall

and screamed, "Serve yourself! Serve yourself!"

I'd grab a tin of baked beans and he'd smile.

Now, years later, I return to the deli

and find that it's closed.

The sign on the door confirms

what everyone else already knows:

There has been a death in the family.

Recliner Therapy

He's out there again,

my neighbor, the doctor,

waiting for the snow plow 

to pass so he can jog

on a clean street.

It's 5 a.m. and we've had

three inches of snow 

and it's still coming down

but nothing can stop him.

Doc jogs every morning,

good weather or bad.

This morning we meet

because I'm out spelunking 

in the snow and the dark

for my morning paper.

Going through his warm-ups,

he invites me once again

to join him for a jog, an

invitation he extends when  

we meet on dark mornings.

As I have before, I tell him

I know I'll arrive soon enough

in Cadaverville and have

no desire to get there faster. 

Months ago, I told him

about articles in the paper

three or four times a year

indicating that another

otherwise healthy man has 

dropped dead jogging.

I tell him that's not a good thing.

One of the deceased, I mention, 

was a cardiologist like him.

Couldn't remember his name

but he was young too, with kids.

I go on to explain that I am  

a believer in Recliner Therapy,

something I find very beneficial.

I add that I've never heard of a soul

dropping dead in a recliner 

though I admit that could happen

but so far I have seen no mention 

of such a tragedy in the paper.

Thirty years my junior at least,

this young doctor who jogs 

asks what I do for exercise

as he puffs through his warm-ups.

I tell him I push all the way back 

in my humongous recliner

at least three times a day

and wiggle my toes, grab

a Kleenex and blow my nose.

I tell him I believe in a 

holistic, head-to-toe

approach to exercise. 

The snow plow finally passes

and the young doctor chuckles,

hikes up his sweat pants

and jogs off, arms swinging,

through flakes of snow.