NOW AND THEN
After my youngest brother talked
it over with his wife, he tested
as a perfect match for my kidney
transplant. When his cholesterol
lowered and her summer vacation
vacation from teaching first grade
began, we entered the hospital.
I knew I was lucky not having
to worry, think of potential
donors, wait, hope for friends
to offer, find ways to crowbar
it casually into conversations,
lucky never needing to ask
anyone straight out, never beg
desperately hooked up to dialysis,
growing sicker. No prepared sales
pitch, how it wouldn’t cost them
a cent, mention the quick, easy,
two week recovery. Any problems
with the remaining kidney?
They would bullet straight
to the top of the treatment chart
like a newly released, second
rate Beatles single. Three
friends stepped up. Thanks
again: Erica, Michael, Elisa.
No one else said a word. Maybe
they hoped, prayed, I’d find
a more suitable donor. Maybe
they’d race in, a last second
caped super-hero, rescue me
as time dwindled down. Maybe
they never considered it, too
scared or simply didn’t care
enough to save someone’s life.
Mine. Maybe I need different
friends. Maybe It’s easy for me
to say, but I would have stepped-
up for most of them. Maybe
that makes me a better person.
Maybe my sister was the worst,
sitting on the front stoop of the house
we grew up in, smoking a cigarette,
telling me she couldn’t be a donor,
wouldn’t try to meet the health
requirement, stop smoking. Since
she could never stop for herself,
she wouldn’t try to stop for anyone,
a kind of justified logic, something
she thought I’d accept, understand,
carry to the cemetery. Thanks
to Jaime, I never think about it.
Really. Only now and then.
*
AT MY AGE
It really helps to get
a subway seat. Especially
for the hour ride home,
Brooklyn to Queens. Today
I squeeze in a corner two-
seater next to a homeless
guy with a filthy rag draped
over his head. The smell
of booze, stale tobacco,
sweat gets worse every
stop and he’s nodding
off, wobbling like a Weeble
While I pray to the subway
saints he doesn’t tip
over, nestles comfortably
on my shoulder, starts
to snore and I end up
featured on somebody’s
social link as today’s
compassionate New Yorker,
instead of a worn out old
guy with aching knees
cringing at the thought
of him touching me.
*
Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have been published in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Gargoyle, BODY, One Art. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here on Earth is forthcoming on NYQ Books in 2024.
Moving and incredibly familiar words and sentiments in both poems, Tony. I recall early days of transplants, and transplant requests, and the ethical challenges I encountered as clinical social worker and as family member when a potential recipient occasionally desperately wanted a kidney, and yet pledged every indication of continuing the behavior that had destroyed the existing organs. Rare, I think and hope, but part of the unfortunate mix, too.
wonderful poems
I love the honesty in Tony’s work. He doesn’t try to make himself look good at other’s expense. A rare quality.
I love both of these and all Tony’s work. Cutting, compassionate and I inhabit them.