Thursday, January 22, 2015

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 midnightfound 
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.


For some, too soon.
But none know when.

For some she’s still
a child at 49

with cancer 
in the gut


Stage 4, 
the doctors say.

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.

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