Black Butterfly

There never was 

anyone like Ali

between the ropes

or facing the public.

In the ring and out 

we saw a man 

float like a butterfly,

sting like a bee.

He was to boxing

what Astaire 

was to dancing,

what Sinatra was 

to singing.

A nonpareil.

But no one stopped

Fred from dancing

or Frank from singing

because of a war 

Ali and many  

never understood.

Donal Mahoney

A Place to Put Stuff

Last night my recliner broke.

I used the lever to lean back 

and I went way back, almost

heels over head. A shock.

I hate going to the recliner store 

when the chair I bought there  

five or six years ago breaks.

They always do, dramatically, 

almost on schedule.

I hate going around the store,

sitting up and down until the 

right throne fits my keister.

It’s not the money involved

although they aren’t cheap. 

I just hate the process.

But the homeless man on the ramp

I gave two bucks to this morning

he doesn’t have a place to put 

a recliner even if I bought him one.

It wouldn’t fit in his plastic bags

and would be too heavy to drag 

to his overnight shelter.

In five or six years when my 

new recliner breaks I’ll try to 

remember him and realize 

I have a place to put stuff

and he doesn’t and isn’t that

one of the differences between

the homeless man and me 

and Hillary and The Donald.

Donal Mahoney

A Hollow Tale

A mountain man is Fillmore

but there are no mountains 

where Fillmore lives 

deep in a hollow.

He's never had a job

and doesn’t want one now

spends his days huntin’ coon

squirrel and possum

and that catamount

lore says is black.

At night he reads by 

lantern light with pit bull 

Satan poised at his feet.

Folks in town know Fillmore 

doesn't feature people

so no one comes callin’.

He feeds Satan 

but not too much.

He wants Satan hungry 

when the thief of night 

comes through the window 

the way that stranger did

a few years back and Satan 

had a midnight snack. 

Since then Satan waits 

poised at Fillmore’s feet

primed for another snack.

Donal Mahoney

Our Mistakes Are Us

Old Sam on his deathbed says 

he’d rewrite his life if he could. 

He’d do so many things differently,

be nice to all his wives if he could

but luckily they had died before him.

 

When he was in grammar school 

he admired the president in office.

When asked if he would change 

anything in his life, Truman

rasped, “Not a damn thing!”

Old Sam has pondered this for 

many years and thinks his life 

has been misspent writing poems

that are little more than broken lines,

unruly couplets and forced rhymes. 

Our mistakes are us, Old Sam says. 

Truman should have done something

different to end the war than ordering

commanders to drop atomic bombs.

Murdering innocents is not the answer.

Donal Mahoney

Earthquake in the Yard

He’s a vet from Vietnam

who won’t say much about

what happened over there

except to say his problem

began with Agent Orange,

the breathing problem he has

cutting grass, raking leaves 

and shoveling snow, 

the only work anyone 

will hire him to do.

The money helps him live 

on what the government 

gives him but that’s not much 

because it’s obvious

the man's not living well.

Watching him mow grass

from an upstairs window 

on a sultry day and have

him stop and cough so

many times, you want to 

pay him not to mow but 

know that won't work.

The man can’t breathe

but he still has pride.

So you pay him well,

force him to take a tip

and wonder if some day

he’ll fall on his mower 

or maybe on the grass

and won’t get up at all,

the earthquake coughing

being what it is, 

ripping him apart.

Donal Mahoney