Little Cartons, Little Sacks
The mug of tea
I drank at dawn,
the tea that drove
me to the train
needs a refill.
At my desk,
I don’t do much
but wait for lunch
when every day
I eat so much
the waitress gawks.
She doesn’t
realize the years
till supper
when I’ll dine
alone again,
bolt everything
that I bring home
in little cartons,
little sacks.
She’s not there
when the couch
becomes my slab
till ten
when bed
becomes
my mausoleum.
Donal Mahoney
