The Poet Community

The Widow Next Door | Donal Mahoney

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.

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