Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Found in an Attic: 

World War II Letter to a Wife

When I get home

things will be the same.

I haven't changed.

The sling  

comes off the day

I get on the plane.

I'll be able 

to cut the grass,

rake the leaves,

shovel the snow,

all the stuff I did before.

And every morning

in summer, fall,

winter and spring, 

when we wake up, 

I'll draw rosettes

with the tip 

of my tongue

on your nipples,

await your orders to 

bivouac elsewhere.

Nothing has changed.

I'm feeling fine. 

We'll cleave again.

Funeral for the Last Parent

They were never one

always two

yet they had five,

adults themselves now,

bowling pins today

upright in the front pew,

wondering still 

after all these years 

why the two 

were never one.

It's not a story

the two would tell

even if they could.

They were galaxies apart.

They had no answer

yet they still had five,

adults themselves now

who can celebrate

they're here at all,

bowling pins today

upright in the front pew.

No need to wonder why 

the two who loved them

were never one.

It's not a story

the two would tell

even if they could.

They're galaxies away.

Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son

The older I get the more I realize

the importance of getting things done

before your mother announces another 

assignment to roust me from my hammock.

As you know I've never been much

around the house, my skills limited to 

raking leaves and shoveling snow, 

menial tasks I haven't missed in years.

Probably not since you lived here.

Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm 

and has always liked getting things done.

But she's getting older too. In fact,

she recently had a big operation 

and I've pitched in beyond my skill set 

despite new stents and a pacemaker.

But even though we just put away

the walker, cane and wheelchair,

all three are on alert so I believe 

it's best to let you know that

one of these days the one who's left 

will ring you up and let you know.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.