Donal Mahoney

Almost toothless now,
old Romeo puts his Bible down,
relaxes in his rocker,
pours brandy in his snifter
and scribbles in his ledger
memories of Mary,
dead some 40 years now.

When Romeo was young
and dark and dashing, Mary
was the perfect foil.
He can see her dancing
and hear her laugh, a note
no mockingbird would try.
He tells his chauffeur,

“Bring the car around.
I need to buy a diving board
for the swimming pool.
The doctor says I’m terminal.
Six months, he says.
I want to dive in Mary’s eyes
tonight and drown.”

Listen up! It’s Deacon Simon here,
reporting on Pastor Harold Schnabel,
the minister we long ago defrocked.
Remember how he went to Holland
years ago. Hard to believe but
he’s coming back a millionaire
who made his money
running a bordello for midgets
with Peyronie’s Disease
in downtown Amsterdam.

He hired his staff carefully,
favoring double-jointed women who
understand the geometry of angles,
isosceles and otherwise.
He’s coming back to take advantage
of an American Renaissance
in porkpie hats. He says men
will wear them once again
this summer and possibly forever.
It will be the same porkpie hat

made famous by Buster Keaton,
the beloved comedian,
who for years was chief custodian
in Harold’s congregation, long before
we deacons finally defrocked him
for simony, calumny,
heterosexuality and serial fraud.
Anyone who thinks Harold’s wrong
about an American Renaissance
in porkpie hats needs to remember

the startling success he’s had
running that bordello for midgets
with Peyronie’s Disease.
The staff of ladies he recruited.
made Harold a millionaire.
We defrocked him for cause but
he’s an entrepreneur extraordinaire.
He knows midgets and porkpie hats.
So, please, join me at the airport
Sunday morning after services

so we can make Harold’s return
to our beautiful city a boffo event.
He’s giving out free porkpie hats
to everyone who comes to greet him.
And big discounts to all midgets
with Peyronie’s Disease planning
a trip to Amsterdam this Spring
to admire–what else?–the tulips.
There will never be another Harold.
Let’s welcome Pastor Schnabel home.

It’s a matter of the heart,
the doctor says,
and he can fix it
with catheter ablation.
“It works miracles,” he says,
“in certain matters of the heart.”

He’s been a cardiologist for years.
“Take my word for it,” he says.
“You’ll be sedated. Won’t feel a thing.”

No excavation in my chest, either.
Instead, he’ll make little holes
in my groin and snake tiny wires
to the surface of my heart
and kill the current that makes

my heart race like a hare
at times and mope
like a turtle other times.
He’s never lost a patient.
“You’ll be fine,” he says.
“Trust me.”

Nine out of 10 ablations work.
I’ll save hundreds a month, he says,
on medications. No more Multaq.
No more Cardizem. And I’ll never
have to wear a heart monitor again.

“Shall we give it a try?” he asks.
“I’ve got an opening
two weeks from Monday.
It’s an outpatient procedure.
You’ll go home the same day,
rest for a week and then resume
your usual activities, even bowling.
Do you like bowling? My nurses do.
I prefer woodcarving.”

“Okay, Doc,” I tell him.
“I’ll give it a try, but tell me,
where were you 40 years ago
when the kids were small
and I was young, like a bull,
and a different matter of the heart
dropped me like a bullet.
Are you sure my heart’s still ticking?
Where’s your stethoscope?
I haven’t felt a thing in years.”

Pedro swings a mop all night
on the 30th floor of Castle Towers
just off Michigan Avenue
not far from the foaming Lake.
The floor is his, all his,
to swab and wax till dawn.

The sun comes up and Pedro’s
on the subway snoring,
roaring home to a plate
of huevos rancheros,
six eggs swimming
in a lake of salsa verde,
hot tortillas stacked
beside them.

After breakfast,
Pedro writes a poem
for Esperanza,
the wife who waits
in Nuevo Leon.
He mails the poem
that night, going back
to his bucket and mop.

Pedro’s proud
of three small sons,
soccer stars
in the making.
On Christmas Eve
the boys wait up
in Nuevo Leon
and peek out the window.
Papa’s coming home
for Christmas!

Pedro arrives at midnight
on a neighbor’s donkey,
laughing beneath
a giant sombrero.
He has a red serape
over his shoulder,
and he’s juggling
sacks of gifts.

When the donkey stops,
the boys dash out and clap
and dance in circles.
Esperanza stands
in the doorway
and sings
Feliz Navidad.

What if your parents
had never met
had never married

had never yelled
at each other
and instead had wed

someone they loved
and lived peacefully
all those years.

That would have been
their Eden but you
shaking there now

decades later
wouldn’t be with us
cursing the tremors

of a nuclear childhood
you still remember
long after they’re dead.