Donal Mahoney- Three Poems

Dying at Midnight

Two big attendants 

in white coats are here 

to remove my remains.

My son called the mortuary 

after Murphy said I was gone.

The doctor, a good neighbor, 

came over at midnight, found 

no pulse and made it official.

I could have saved him the trip.

I knew I was gone.

My wife's in the kitchen 

crying with my daughter 

in a festival of Kleenex.

I told her I was sick

but she didn't believe me.

She thought I was faking it

so I wouldn't have to go 

to her mother's for dinner.

I don't like lamb but 

her mother's from Greece.

Lamb shanks are always

piled on the table.

Stuffed grape leaves I like

and she'll make them for  

Christmas provided I start

begging at Thanksgiving.

Every Easter, however,

it's another fat leg of lamb, 

marbled with varicosities 

and sauced with phlebitis.

Right now I'm wondering 

who'll win the argument

between the two angels 

facing off in the mirror

on top of the dresser.

The winner gets my soul

which is near the ceiling,

a flying saucer spinning 

out of control.

I want the angel 

in the white tunic 

to take it in his backpack.

The other guy in gray  

looks like Peter Lorre 

except for the horns.

Chomping

For some, too soon.

But none know when.

For some she’s still

a child at 49

with cancer 

in the gut

spreading,

chomping.

Stage 4, 

the doctors say.

Chemo 

may help.

Runs in the family.

Brother survived it.

For some, too soon.

But none know when.

A Night in Morocco

Middle of the night he flies out of bed

to the commode only to wonder 

in the dim light minutes later

if that's blood or simply a good-bye

from his wife’s stewed tomatoes,

a Moroccan dish she found on the web.

When he asked for a third serving

he pronounced them delicious.

So too, he said, was her dessert,

the Moroccan plum mousse

with the dark plums he likes.

Even with the ceiling light on 

he doesn’t know now what he sees 

so with his medical history he's 

speeding at midnight to the ER

where the doctor says better safe 

than sorry and orders a fast

colonoscopy to solve the mystery.

When he finally gets home, he tells

his wife when her boss comes over

for that big dinner Saturday night,

why not make Moroccan tomatoes 

and her magnificent plum mousse.

He may never forget either. 

 

 

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.