Old Man at the Diner
He slaughters his hamburger steak
with a fork and a butter knife,
massacres ringlets of onions
again and again
thumps catsup all over
the bloody commingling,
then ever so slowly
peppers and salts
and reminds me of Hrebic,
whose wife, back
on the block of my youth,
sat all summer out on her stoop,
knees awry, one eye black,
the other turning gray,
sunning the great white hydrants
of her phlebitic legs.
Donal Mahoney
