2 poems by Donal Mahoney

Chino and Chambray
 
Forty years older than I,
Charles, in his tweed cap, stands starched
in gray chino and blue chambray.
 
For more than a year his broad tie
has let the same iridescent duck
fly against a vermillion sky.
 
Like a Vatican Guard
he oversees the parking lot
I cut through each morning
 
far corner to far corner
as I cleave two triangles of cars
parked in my wake.
 
I ask him one morning,
“Charles, do you mind
when I cut through your lot?”
 
“Not at all, sir,” says Charles
as he stares straight ahead
and starts the windmill
 
of his good arm to lead
the pearl Hummer
now pulling in.

Coma

Sleet on the turnpike
in the middle of the night
but I keep driving,
both hands on the wheel,
nowhere to pull off,
and a yellow bus
comes over the line
and kisses my truck.
That's all I remember.
Now I'm in bed,
wired to things,
unable to move,
listening to a doctor 
telling my wife,
"It's been two weeks,
no improvement."
He asks her nicely
if we should let him go,
the dimwit bastard.
If I could, I'd scream 
but I can't even
wiggle my toes.