Judgment Day
If I knew I'd live forever
I'd never send a poem out.
No poem ever comes with
ten fingers and ten toes
so I’d keep revising, add
what's missing, remove
what shouldn’t be there
and put in the right fillip.
One can only write
while the sun streams in
because too soon
the moon comes out
and in the dark
one can’t fix a thing.
Once you’re dead
your poems live on,
warts and all, naked
on a sheet of foolscap
or afloat in cyberspace
for all to read and fault.
It’s Judgment Day.
Billionaire and Beggar
A billionaire and beggar
die on the same day,
miles apart. They
never knew each other
but that’s no matter.
The billionaire is buried
with pomp reflecting
wealth and stature.
The beggar’s lowered
in a potter’s field.
Two workers shovel.
One says a prayer.
Years later
a major quake tosses
thousands of caskets.
Popped lids confirm
a truth the billionaire
and beggar share.
Dust and bones
in both their caskets.
Equality lies here.
Just for a Day
If you want to know
what it’s like to have nothing
just for a day
head for Skid Row.
Trade your suit and 20 bucks
for the attire of a resident
standing against a wall.
Buy a tin cup and yellow pencils
and go to Union Station in time
for the evening rush hour
when suburbanites with jobs
on Michigan Avenue go home
for dinner and a little HBO.
Flop down near the entrance
in your tatters with pencils and cup.
Wear Charles Bronson sunglasses
and hold high a sign that says,
“Will Work for Food.”
Count the briefcases that sail by
and see how many pencils you sell,
how many people even look at you
before the gendarmes arrive
and poke you with a baton
then walk you away.
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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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