Griggs' Bar and Grill

In two more hours I'll have to shower,
shave and coffee-prop my lids
and otherwise prepare for day. It's 4 a.m.
and now the barkeep, Griggs,

is rushing me, the first
to come, the last to leave,
the lad who just an hour before
was coaxed to quaff one more.

At work I'll cummerbund a smile,
hold my head and sit all day,
play another endless game
of solitaire or tic-tac-toe.

Griggs' apron's off. The neon's out
and now he'll set the locks in back.
The spittle, butts and half-slain beers
he'll leave for Willie who'll soon be here

to dance his broom between
the tables and the scattered chairs
as smoothly as Kelly or Astaire.
At 6 a.m., he'll climb the ladder

near the door and aim his broom
through the transom toward the sky.
Every morning Willie puts a
bullet through the eye of sunrise.

Donal Mahoney © 2009

Donal Mahoney

Caseworker Takes Notes

I was there the day
there trickled down the wall
of an old man's room one roach

that stopped across
a canyon in the plaster till
the old man's elevated slipper fell.

The roach absorbed the blow
and as though perforated for that purpose
dissolved into an archipelago.

The old man looked at me
and patiently explained, "Despite my
constant smacking of its brethren

one roach each day will trickle down that wall
and pause and pose as if to say,
'Go ahead and smack me, that's okay.'"

To take advantage of the archipelago at hand
the old man pointed toward the last palpitating island
and once again explained,

"Each roach I smack, you see,
offers me that same good-bye--
one last flicker of antennae."

Donal Mahoney © 2009