Donal Mahoney
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Film
Noir
They
had to operate
remove
the one
and
from the other
take
a nugget.
Later
in the hall
they
said they got it all.
They
said how well
she’d
be with rest.
Her
first night home,
as
we prepared for bed,
she
turned to show me.
In
my mind the cinema of fleet
but
fecund years
ran
through another time.
Two
Appliqués
If
the greatest of these
is
charity
tell
me again
why
it’s gauche
if
this young man
in
a booth at a bar
dives
under the skirt
of
the farmer’s widow
smiling
across from him.
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.
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Black
Seed by Black Seed
Every
day the same people
at
the same table
at
the rear of the cafeteria.
The
maiden, 35 at least,
is
gray at the temples,
sour
at the mouth.
The
widow, 55, waves
a
cigarette like a wand.
Girdled
and dyed,
she
needs no one now;
She
ministers to a dog
and
has a new apartment.
The
accountant, 65, wants to retire,
his
years of intemperance
tempered
by a stroke,
his
anger at everything
suddenly
gone. The janitor, 60,
explains
over and over
how
over the weekend
he
snipped from his garden
husks
of dead sunflowers
and
drove them out of the city
and
into the forest
and
there in a clearing
spread
the black cakes
for
chipmunks to strip,
black
seed by black seed.
I,
a young editor,
“with
your whole life
in
front of you,” they insist,
sit
through it all,
Monday
through Friday,
spooning
broth, buttering slices
of
rye, and praying that after
pudding
again for dessert,
the
phone on my desk
will
explode too late
with
a call I’ll take anyway,
and
that after that call, I’ll rise
and
take from my sport coat
a
speech I wrote years ago,
a
speech I’ll discard for two lines
off
the cuff: “Here’s two weeks’ notice.
I
have found a new job.”
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