Little Cartons, Little Sacks
The mug of tea
I drank at dawn,
the tea that drove
me to the train
needs a refill.
At my desk,
I don’t do much
but wait for lunch
when every day
I eat so much
the waitress gawks.
She doesn’t
realize the years
till supper
when I’ll dine
alone again,
bolt everything
that I bring home
in little cartons,
little sacks.
She’s not there
when the couch
becomes my slab
till ten
when bed
becomes
my mausoleum.
Love Is Another Thing
Sitting at the table
spinning the creamer
running her fingers through sugar
the kids spilled at supper, Sue
suddenly says, “Don,
love is another thing.”
Since love is another thing
I have to go rent a room,
leave behind eight years,
five kids, the echoes of me
raging at noon on the phone,
raging at night, the mist
of whose fallout ate her skin,
ate her bones, left her a kitten
crying high in an oak
let me free, let me free
Joint Custody
You were gone
when I got home
at midnight
from a double shift.
Now you’re back,
two years later.
I had no idea
where you went
so I packed up
and got a room.
Long ago,
I begged you
not to leave
but that was then.
You can keep
the house, the car.
I'll come by
some starry night
when the moon is bright
and you're asleep.
I promise not to
wake the dogs.
When you get up
you'll find
I used my key
to take the kids.
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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