Every evening, up in my rooom, I try to finish a poem but Chicago is hot and it’s better outside,

She could sing, dance, and act but picking a man was a problem. She didn’t complain or explain just worked hard for the money, an Unsinkable Molly Brown.

A moment ago, in a flicker of pique, with a wave of the hand, I dispersed them. Glorious birds,

If you arrive too early at the public library and stand on the steps with Mabel till the doors open

My wife’s amazed when I station myself at the computer writing this or that despite a hound dog

Long article in the paper this morning stops Tim from gobbling his bacon and eggs. Bears are starving in the woods. Too many cubs, too little food.

Ten years later he still mourns the death of his friend, Bill, such a smart man he could talk to

Long ago you said birth and death were the bookends of life. Nothing before. Nothing after. We were saplings at the time. Since then we’ve made a lot of mon…

A sense of shame is missing in the world today. If you find it, burp Donal Mahoney

Old Tim writes poetry now in his heaven of retirement. He’s had nice jobs over the years but swears retirement is better.

No red kettles and bells this December outside the stores at the mall in our suburbs this year. They irritate shoppers,