In a storefront laundry
on North Clark Street
brown draperies release
this quiet man

who has my shirts.
He smiles and bows–
how carefully
he wraps them.

Before the draperies
fall back, I see,
for a moment,
in a circle swirling

almost out of sight
three kerchiefed women,
glistening black,
bending, grabbing, sorting.

© Donal Mahoney, 2012

[others]

© Donal Mahoney, 2011

[others]

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.

© Donal Mahoney, 2011

[others]

leaving the station.
The weatherman’s warned of rain
so we’re armed

with umbrellas,
our briefcases swinging.
Across from the station

there’s an old hotel
high in the sky. King Kong,
everyone calls it.

In tall windows
old men appear,
disappear, reappear.

It is August in Chicago
and the old men wear
overcoats and homburgs

so no one can steal them.
They light cigarettes,
mumble and curse

at the daily parade
leaving the station.
Traffic is thick

but even in winter
no one looks up
since no one can hear them.

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

Both men talked softly,
held cigarette rites:
the delights of the tapping,
the lighting, the stubbing,
the one man explaining,
the other one listening,
both of them knowing
a matter of months.

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

“Quiet, please,” I tell her,
“I want to hear the music.”
She is sitting next to me again,
this time on a paisley couch,
a woman in a lime bikini I met
only this morning sprawled
on the Morse Avenue Beach.
All I did was admire her aloud,
not recognize her age, and an hour later
she brought me home with her.
Now she is curling into me again
and moaning at a remarkable pitch.
Finally she spits into my neck
what it’s about,
this time and every time,
“Honey…I am…coming.”

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

There he will find
what he’s after
and get that big kiss
before driving her home
through jackhammer rain
and flying with her
through the windshield
making a turn.

Now they’re a legend,
the talk of the town,
emblazoned forever
for pickups to see
as two appliqués
on a viaduct wall,
their Rorschachs
bright red,
whatever their ages.

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

In this Kerryman’s eyes
you can still see
big ships sail
and lighthouses flicker
light years away.
He’s 70 today
and sits tombstone straight
in his caneback chair.
He waves at the flake
hanging from his nose,
misses and curses.
It’s his first curse of the day
and he’s ready now for anything,
an ancient ram braced for the British
climbing through the mist.
His children, parents themselves now,
sit in his parlor, silent around him.
When they hear that first curse,
they know it’s 20 years earlier
and Father is calling
a big meeting of the Family.
They shift in their chairs
as his eyes and his words
whiz around the room
like bees liquored up
looking for something to sink into.

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

At first thrust, she reaches up,
throws the scapular
over his shoulder, shouts

“What’s this?” He rolls off,
stares at the ceiling,
says, “Cancel the trip.”

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]

So this Mick on the next stool,
who’s as serious as Yeats
but looks like Wilde,
stares at me, with eyes crossed,
sips Guinness through the foam,
burps and says, “I’ll bet that growth is cystic.
If it were my nose, I’d light this match,
hold a straight pin over it
and prick it. Poof! There’d be
a belch of goat cheese, sure.
What of it? You’d need a Q-Tip,
maybe a drop of p’roxide.
But in two weeks new skin would bloom
smoother than a baby’s bum.
With your luck, Yank, it would freckle.”

© Donal Mahoney, 2010

[others]