It's Many Miles from Easy


It's many miles from easy to the end. 
For some, the end is dawn. For others it's 
the nightfall of imbroglio because

the end depends upon your ticket 
and every ticket's punched one-way. 
No round-trip tickets, save perhaps 

for some who claim a mulligan, 
who say they need another chance. 
It's true that some may need a mulligan 

if they leave without a destination, 
while others know which port 
they'll dock in. Or so they say.

When they arrive, however,
and find no hula skirts or leis,
they may gasp and cry, "Who knew?"

while somewhere in the clouds 
a blinking neon sign proclaims 
it's many miles from easy to the end.




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.



Funeral for the Last Parent


They were never one
always two
yet they had five,
adults themselves now,
bowling pins today
upright in the front pew,
wondering still 
after all these years 
why the two 
were never one.

It's not a story
the two would tell
even if they could.
They were galaxies apart.
They had no answer
yet they still had five,
adults themselves now
who can celebrate
they're here at all,
bowling pins today
upright in the front pew.

No need to wonder why 
the two who loved them
were never one.
It's not a story
the two would tell
even if they could.
They're galaxies away.



The Parlor of My Dotage


In the parlor of my dotage
I have a grand piano where
the ghost of Shostakovich 
plays "Chopsticks" every night
while I in my recliner 
drink vodka in pajamas
and cheer old Shosty on.

Tonight the concert's interrupted
when Granny in her nightcap 
dashes from her bedroom 
and shouts in high soprano  
"Send old Shosty home.
I need a good night's sleep.
I have Mahjong in the morning."

Through my bullhorn I shout back, 
"I won't send old Shosty anywhere
until his concert ends at dawn.
Then I'll put my parka on and saddle up
the horses and take the master home. 
Old Shosty swears that global warming 
is no problem there at all."



At Bus Stops on Thanksgiving Day


Before dawn, people
who work on Thanksgiving Day  
wait in the wind for a bus 
to arrive or maybe not.
It's too cold to talk  
so the people stand 
like minutemen and plan 
a revolution that would shock  
nice families who drive by later, 
children tucked in scarves 
and mittens, laughing 
all the way to Nana's house  
for turkey, gravy, stuffing 
and later in the day 
a ballerina of whipped cream 
twirling on pumpkin pie.
Thanksgiving is the day 
America asks for seconds
and sorts its servers 
from the served.


©2014 Donal Mahoney