The Cab That I Caught
I remember the train
and the cab that I caught,
the train because of the meal that I had,
too many plates, the tiniest portions,
the cab because of the driver I had.
I could see in the mirror his eye
soar to the side of its socket,
a hummingbird there
ready to flutter into his skull.
From station to town,
that hummingbird flew
as I kept listening
to its master extol
the town's lone hotel.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Play's The Thing
Every day
the same play.
The moment I rise,
the first act begins,
the same plot
all over again.
Only the characters,
only the scenery,
vary. Act after act,
no intermission,
no denouement,
it never ends.
Every night,
in the front row,
the same lady
in a plumed hat
stands and shouts,
"Author, Author! "
I smile, I bow,
what else can I do?
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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A Day in the Life of Paddy Murphy, Broker
Riding home on the train, Paddy's aware
that after supper, cigarettes, TV and beer
a romp on the wife will cloak
the question for another day.
He'll fear nothing then
till noon the next day when
the question will rise all over again.
If his luck holds, he'll survive
the ride home on the train, aware
that after supper, cigarettes, TV and beer
a romp on the wife will cloak
the question for another day.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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The Second Day of Class
This sylph came forward
from the second row
the second day of class
and asked if
I would edit her poem
so it would read
the way it should.
I told her straightaway
that even though
this was writing class
and I was the instructor,
I couldn't edit her poem
and still have the poem be hers.
Editing her poem, I said,
would be a little like rape,
just painful in a different way
whether she understood that
yet or not.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Father, Again, Peering
The final years dear Mother she
was never, well, what actors call "on location."
Physically, of course, we found her
everywhere:
the parlor reading,
the kitchen ironing,
the basement weeping,
unlike Father whom we never found
though he was always there.
On Sundays when he went to Mass,
he'd stay behind, peering.
Like Queeg, he'd stare
from under or behind
whatever he wasn't
hiding in front of.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Memories
If one could store them
in the attic without stir
and turn to other things,
to picking fruit, perhaps,
or seeding it, one could afford
the dalliance of an hour
for one would have the years
one knows will not be those
whose paralytic youth has just begun,
the years whose summer plea
for laughter and for kiss
somersault the hair
and scimitar the smile: the years
the sun, the moon, the stars
can never order stop.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Night Light
The last visitor before I sleep
is always the old priest
puffing up the stairs to my door,
a wine cask under each arm,
a loaf of pumpernickel in his teeth.
He's always too late to give the last rites,
and even though I'm usually dead by then,
it falls to me to console him.
So I say, "Father, Father,
you don't have to hurry.
Faith is no longer a klieg.
It's a night light left burning all day,
and its bulb is hissing."
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Bag Lady
Chicago's North Side
This senior citizen
whose face is Rushmore still
squats with pigeons on the steps
of the Rogers Park Masonic Temple.
She wears a shawl this snowy day
and is beneath the visor of a hunting cap
a woman who has paused along the way.
Her shopping bags, stuffed, frayed,
and each square feature of her face confess
she speaks at best a little English.
Rested, she will rise,
a penguin on a floe,
and navigate her day.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Nutmeat
My dear, tell me again so I know
how it would have been
had you married the man
you dream of all day, tell me again
as I lie next to you now,
your nutmeat sweet in my mouth.
Tell me again so I know
how to feel for fathering five
on you fast, five in six years,
five who will never be quiet again
in our lives, five who will leave
in the night when they are of age
while up in our room I nibble
on nutmeat, proud to have traded
an oak for these acorns.
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Hermit's Confession
So I never go out
but I'm never at home
so that's why I never
answer the phone.
You can believe me.
I'll tell you why.
The caller could be
someone I never
want to see,
someone who never
wants to see me.
Or so we agreed.
The truth can remain
hidden for years
till hung out to dry
in the summer sun
for all to see
like a nuclear plume.
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poem by Donal Mahoney
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