Donal Mahoney- Two Poems

Pants on Fire

Rhoda, I can’t say why Amanda 

was picked and not Tiffany  

for anchor of our Nightly News.

I interviewed both 

because Mr. Smith wanted 

a woman’s opinion.

I honestly don’t know.

I made a recommendation

and sent it to Mr. Jones

who sent it to Mr. Smith

who made the final decision.

I found little difference 

between the two.

A day later Mr. Smith sent Mr. Jones

a formal email with a copy to me

saying Amanda would be the anchor 

and Tiffany would return 

to morning news.

I’m glad it was not my decision.

I could have picked either.

Earlier in our careers, Rhoda,

you and I both did on-air TV and radio. 

Now you write a media column

and I direct this program.

As women, we know

the demands of television 

differ from those 

of radio and print.

But I can assure you, 

one woman to another, 

despite what readers and viewers 

may think, Amanda’s cup size 

was never a factor.

Mr. Smith says if you put that 

in your column, you better 

believe we’ll sue.

Father Spoke in Code

Father spoke in code

Mother understood.

She would cry

once he went to bed.

I never understood the code.

My sister didn't either. 

As we got older, we quit

asking Mother what he said.

A feral cat claimed our yard.

It would leap the fence 

when anyone appeared.

Except, of course, Father.

When he came out to walk

around the garden after supper, 

the cat would sit straight up,

then rub against his leg

and look at him as if it understood 

what others never could. 

My sister used to say 

the two of us were proof 

Father and Mother 

got together twice.

I told her I wasn't so certain.

I looked a lot like Mr. Brompton,

the next-door neighbor.

He used to buy us sugar cones

from the ice cream truck.

My sister, by the way, didn't look 

like anyone in the family either,

but that was 40 years ago

when I last saw her.

I went away to college 

and she got married.

We were never close after that. 

Not even Christmas cards.

Forty years is a long time.

Now, we plan to get together

for a weekend this summer

before one of us dies.

I suggested we wait

till one of us is terminal.

What's the rush, I said.

But my wife told her

I was only kidding,

that we'll be coming

and not to make a fuss.

Burgers and hot dogs

will do just fine.

I know what Sis and I 

will talk about that weekend,

the two people we'll always

have in common, no matter 

how many years and miles

may lie between us.

Father and Mother have been 

dead for decades now

but they're still alive in us.

I talk in code, my wife says,

and my sister cries a lot, 

now that her husband's dead.

The one thing I want to know

is if my sister knows

what happened to the cat.

It knew the code,

may have had some answers.

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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.