The Widow Next Door
when the sun is out
and it’s hotter than Hades
Monica next door
raises her garage door
early in the morning
and leaves it up
long past noon as if
Herm will walk out
at any minute
oily and greasy
needing to clean up
the way he used to
for 30 years until
liquor ate his liver.
At night Monica
can still hear
the tall Marine
over Herman’s grave.
Letter to an Estranged Middle-Aged Son
The older I get the more I realize
the importance of getting things done
before your mother announces another
assignment to roust me from my hammock.
As you know I’ve never been much
around the house, my skills limited to
raking leaves and shoveling snow,
menial tasks I haven’t missed in years.
Probably not since you lived here.
Your mother, of course, grew up on a farm
and has always liked getting things done.
But she’s getting older too. In fact,
she recently had a big operation
and I’ve pitched in beyond my skill set
despite new stents and a pacemaker.
But even though we just put away
the walker, cane and wheelchair,
all three are on alert so I believe
it’s best to let you know that
one of these days the one who’s left
will ring you up and let you know.
For more poems from Donal, go to: