Poetry by Donal Mahoney

Cats At Their Bowls Lapping

.

This time there’s a postscript:

“If ever I cook dinner for you,

it will be Coquilles St. Jacques

and Jefferson Davis Pie.”

.

Imagine Angela,

after all these years,

rising and gliding

to check on my pie,

.

wouldn’t that be something?

Angela, come to Chicago,

and bring all of your cats.

I’ll watch those cats

.

in your lap napping,

you in my lap napping,

the cats at their bowls lapping,

and I in my chair laughing.

.

Angela, bring all of your cats

and come to Chicago

to make Coquilles St. Jacques

and Jefferson Davis Pie.

***

Little Cartons, Little Sacks

.

Every day at ten a.m.

I piss away

the pot of tea

I drank at six,

the tea that gets

me to the train.

.

At work I wait

for lunch and then

I eat so much

the waitress gawks.

I can’t explain

the years till supper

.

when again

I’ll dine alone,

bolt everything

that I bring home in

little cartons, little sacks.

After supper

.

she’s not there

and so the couch

becomes

my slab till ten

when bed becomes

my mausoleum.

***

People Who Live Above Stores

Morse Avenue,

Chicago

.

It’s two in the morning

and people who live above stores

have sprung from their beds

this hot summer night.

They’re leaning out of their windows

and bellowing into the street

.

at the baker who launched the alarm

in the Rogers Park Donut Shoppe.

It’s been ringing for hours

and the police haven’t come.

Not even the firemen.

The donuts will never get done

.

and it appears now that

people who live above stores

will remain in a rage

leaning out of their windows

waving cigarettes like strobes

and bellowing the rest of the night.