A Working Life Poem by Donal Mahoney
A Working Life
During the day
there might be three cars
parked at different places
anywhere on the block.
But at midnight there isn't
a parking spot in sight
after everyone gets
home from work and
pulls into their spot.
Under the street lights
the cars are lined up tight
one behind the other
like prisoners on a
chain gang halted by
a badge and bullhorn.
In the morning
the horn sounds again
and the cars go back to work.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/22/2024 1:09:37 PM # 1.0.0.1119
The Donal (emphasis on the first syllable) has a wonderful knack of describing ordinary people and situations in an anything-but-ordinary manner. Bravo!
Eugene, I thank you for your comment and I don't know why I am the way I am or why I see life as I do. It's helpful in writing but not always when I am out in public with normal people. When one sees someone with a larger than normal nose and begins to think about anteaters, that can be a problem unless the first three lines of a poem show up with a piece of scrap paper so the poem can be finished later. But it's the way I am and writing gives me an out for living with it. Thanks again. Donal