Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Waiting for the Same Thing

We're all waiting 

for the same thing, 

the old monk told me 

on a tour of the abbey 

the day after the monks 

buried my brother  

in the cemetery down 

by the creek.

At some abbeys, he said, 

monks make fruit cakes, 

cheese, jams or fudge. 

Every abbey, he said,   

has to sell something  

while we're waiting 

for the same thing.

I know you and your brother 

weren't close but he probably 

told you we've been making 

pine caskets for 70 years. 

He was an artist with a chisel. 

Never a word out of him. 

Just shavings of wood 

flying around him like moths. 

We have no one to replace him. 

And business is improving.

I don't know how we'll keep up. 

It's no longer just monks 

at the other abbeys 

buying our caskets. 

Suddenly civilians  

like the simple design, 

the plain box made out of pine, 

no puffery, nothing fancy.  

One man drove down here, 

bought two and fit both 

in the trunk of his Lexus.

Imagine that: our caskets

in the trunk of a Lexus.

The monks who make fruit cakes 

and other good food buy caskets 

from us and we buy what they make  

but we don't need fruit cakes 

the way they need our caskets.

Monks are getting older. 

The jams and fudge, however,

and the sharp cheddar cheese 

are a pleasant distraction 

while we're waiting 

for the same thing.

Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.