DONAL MAHONEY - POEMS

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. His fiction and poetry have appeared in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, Commonweal, Guwahatian Magazine (India), The Galway Review (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria), The Osprey Review (Wales), The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey) and other magazines. Some of his work can be found at http://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs
 
(Photo: Carol Bales)

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                                  Plain Girl Pretty
 


Rose was a plain girl
from a small town.
She sang in the choir,
never missed Bible study,
left for the big city
after high school.
 
She worked nights 
in a shanty diner
next to a bar where
working men gathered.
Depending on how much
the men had to drink
Rose looked appealing
but she ignored them all,
said they wanted what
she had to keep in case 
she got married.
 
Marriage never happened
and the years soared by.
In her thirties Rose 
became pregnant 
to everyone’s surprise.
No one knew who 
the father was and 
Rose wouldn’t say.
 
Rose raised the boy,
put him through school.
On graduation day
her son asked her
who his father was. 
She said his father was 
the only man 
she ever saw put
mayonnaise 
on a hamburger.
It made her laugh.
And he was the only man 
who ever told her 
she was pretty.
Much better 
than any tip.
His father 
was a blind man
and he meant it.
 
 

 
                           High Tea in Missouri
 


They're the oldest couple
my wife and I know
and we’re no pups either.
 
Peter out for a walk
leans on his cane often
to admire my wife’s garden.
 
The English roses remind him 
of home, he says, and one day 
he invites us over for tea 
at the civilized hour of 3.
 
That day at 3
we enter an old world 
in a Victorian house
and are served tea in  
porcelain cups with warm 
scones and marmalade. 
They arrive on a silver tray.
 
It’s a presentation
one might expect 
at the proper hour at
Buckingham Palace or
in a nice cottage in England.
 
Peter excuses himself 
for a moment and I get brave
and ask his wife how long 
they have been married.
 
Sixty years, Mary whispers,
and then with a tinkling giggle 
she says whenever Peter
enters a room her heart 
still beats faster.
 
 

 
                               A Stationary Bicycle
 


The doctor tells Phil and his wife
he’s in pretty good health for a man
his age but he needs to exercise.
 
And Phil says he agrees 
and then goes on to explain
his faith in recliner therapy.
 
He sits in a recliner for hours,
watches TV or reads the paper
and wiggles his toes 
 
at least three times a day.
The doctor asks if his wife if
they’d try a stationary bicycle.
 
She says she thinks there's 
one somewhere in the basement.
Phil says his wife’s right as usual.
 
He saw it one night during a storm
when he went down to change a fuse.
Said he almost had a heart attack.
 
 

 
                                                                 Parents Night 
 


Emma used to do real good in school
her mother tells her new teacher.
It’s Parents Night at Ryland Elementary.
Mostly mothers in attendance.
 
What’s the problem, her mother asks.
Fifth grade shouldn’t be hard for her.
Emma's never had a grade lower than 
a B, her mother says.
 
Teacher says Emma doesn’t do
her homework and talks a lot in class.
Her mother can’t believe it.
Says her father won’t either.
 
She says Emma goes to her room 
right after supper with all her books,
studies till 10, brushes her teeth
and goes to bed.
 
Bill's mother’s next in line to ask
the new teacher what’s the problem 
with her son Bill, who did so well
at his other school.
 
Afterward the mothers meet 
over cookies and a glass of punch
and wonder whether this new teacher
can communicate with Emma and Bill.
 
They don’t know Emma’s awake
till midnight texting new friend Bill,
who’s in her class this year.
They like each other a lot.
 
 

 
                         13 Ways of Looking at Some Polyps
 
​
He asked and so I told him.
The “cancer” poems stem 
from cancer in the family. 
Daughter’s terminal. 
Son's a five-year survivor. 
Mother died at 59. 
I had 13 polyps, all benign, 
snipped a year ago. 
I go back next month
for another roto-rooter.
 
As one grows older,
neighbors, friends and folks
one doesn’t know 
die from it.
That’s life, isn’t it. 
 
One never knows 
but the question’s not
“Why me?” 
The question is
“Why not me?"
 
Think about it.
We’ll all pop something 
now or when, won’t we.