The Poet Community

Wilson and Broadway at 4 a.m. | A Poem by Donal Mahoney


Sunday evening. Drunk
and strolling home.

On the way an hour now,
block after block,

bar to bar.
Weekend’s gone,

Monday’s turning.
Along the way

his swollen fingers find
parking meter posts

are an endless xylophone.
Plunked, they play

the anthem
of a life misspent.


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