Poetry by Tony Gloeggler

                              spablab CC



​
​3:30 THURSDAY AFTERNOON

During the 45 seconds we face 
time, I find out how Jesse’s doing,
good as always, and I explain why
I can’t visit him again this month, 
Covid, and ask him if I can come 
next month and he says October 
2, two nights, Tony go home Sunday
and I answer, Great, I can’t wait 
as he sighs deeply, looks away 
from the screen and I say I really 
miss hanging out and his worker 
prompts him to say, I miss you too 
while Jesse shifts in his chair. All 
three of us then say goodbye 
in a rushed, ragged harmony 
and I think I understand a bit 
of what it means to be autistic: 
the way everything races by, 
how our words, voice tones
and facial expressions never 
connect our feelings to each 
other. But I know it’s only 
a guess, a thought, Jesse 
can never tell me what
it’s like to feel like him.





TRUMP OR BIDEN

Over the phone, me and Joe are covering 
the usual subjects, discussing and arguing 
long established sides, conceding a point 
or two but never changing minds: Mantle 
and Mays, Trump or Biden, Breonna Taylor,
cops and looting, wearing a mask or not, right
to life, growing old  and trying to pass these Covid, 
stay at home times. He was the leader of the kids 
hanging out at Bowne while I always went my own 
way. Except for that touch football league we played 
on that black tarred field in Bayside. I was the top
receiver, best defender. He, the quarterback who still
can close his eyes, picture me running my double move,
post pattern, getting open, sometimes cutting it sharp, 
breaking free across the field. He’d lay the pas
out there with just enough air under it, my strides 
lengthening. I’d leave my feet to meet the ball, 
guide it into my arms, a thirty yard gain. Other times, 
flat out beating the defender straight down the field 
for an easy score.
                                         I miss those days, that connection. 
I want to meet at a bar, order beers, sing along to Glory 
Days playing on the juke box. But I stopped drinking 
in my twenties and he doesn’t give a shit about Springsteen. 
We worked for the same agency forty odd years. Me,
a group home manager, He, the psychologist, Doctor 
Joe. We both loved the guys, the work, felt the same 
fulfillment and then watched it all change, dismantled 
by new management. He retired gracefully, influenced 
by age, health, I made some noise, hired a lawyer, settled 
for more than I deserved. I miss it more than him, When 
we’re arguing, I try to remember our friendship, how every 
one is entitled to their beliefs, but it feels like we’re sixteen, 
back on the court playing three on three. He’s guarding me,
my eyes lit with amped up intensity. His game is based
on strength, his thick thighs trying to control, hold me down, 
overpower and bully me,  his hands jabbing at my ribs, 
leaning, pushing while I grow more determined. Channeling 
Chet Walker and Bob Love, I slide into the post, latch 
onto the pass. He’s hulking over me like he owns my air 
space, like he believes every inch of heaven above is his.
I dribble once, twice, lean in, two head fakes, a shoulder 
flinch. He leaves his feet and I pause the instant it takes 
for him to start coming down, then I lift off, pop my elbow 
into his Adam’s Apple, bank it home, He checks his jaw, 
teeth, while I walk off the court, whisper under my breath 
Game time, you fuck as stars shoot through his sun dazed eyes.





PLAYING IT BACK

My father knew how much I hoped, 
how much it meant to me, that after 
cleaning his dinner plate, drinking 
his cup of Lipton tea, crushing his butt 
in the ash tray, he’d say it looks like 
there’s still a little light out there
two or three times a week. I’d grab 
our gloves, a ball, from the basement, 
meet him by the curb; or that morning 
he cut work, I cut school and we woke 
before the birds, took a bus, a subway
to the Stadium with my best friend 
Ed, waited hours for bleacher seats, 
took turns carrying a shopping bag 
filled with salami, pepperoni, roast
peppers, provolone heroes to watch 
Mantle, Mays play in the ’62 Series;
or that Little League game, standing 
on the mound, twelve years old
and the batter’s father’s face pressed 
against the fence, yelling c’mon hit 
this four-eyed bum, he can’t pitch
and my father jumping out of his seat,  
standing right behind the guy saying
loud enough so everyone could hear, 
Anthony, strike this kid out or I’ll kick 
the crap out of this fat ass loud mouth.
And I did: three high inside fastballs,
three swings, three weak misses.



Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of New York City and has managed group homes for the mentally challenged in Brooklyn for 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, BODY, Juked, New Ohio Review and Trailer Park Quarterly. My full length books include One Wish Left (Pavement Saw Press 2002) and Until The Last Light Leaves (NYQ Books 2015). My new collection, What Kind Of Man, was published by NYQ Books 6/ 2020.