The Widow Next Door Poem by Donal Mahoney
The Widow Next Door
Every Saturday
when the sun is out
and it's hotter than Hades
Monica next door
raises her garage door
early in the morning
and leaves it up
long past noon as if
Herm will walk out
at any minute
oily and greasy
needing to clean up
the way he used to
every Saturday
for 30 years until
liquor ate his liver.
At night Monica
can still hear
the tall Marine
fingering Taps
over Herman's grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/5/2024 7:15:22 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Love this thoughtful poem.30 years of habit is certainly hard to break. A nicely written piece of longing, missing and memories.