Tag: Tony Gloeggler

Two Poems by Tony Gloeggler

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Niece

Last week when my baby brother’s wife
gave birth to their first child, a girl,
I was visiting my old girlfriend and
her twelve year old, Jesse, in Vermont.

Today, I’m standing on their Long Island steps
waiting for someone to come to the door.
My brother grabs my jacket, leads me
down the hall with this dazed half smile.

No one in my family knows how to talk
about anything that matters, but our eyes collide
and I sense we both recognize how different,
warm and charged, this piece of quiet feels.

His wife walks across the living room carrying
a too pink bundle, humming almost imperceptibly.
She’s wearing gray sweats and looks tousled,
softer, more beautiful than I thought possible.

I can’t tell if the baby is as pretty as my mother-
delighted to be a grandmother for the third time-
insisted over and over during our long distance call
or if she looks like anyone in anybody’s family.

I nod and my brother’s wife leans closer, places
the baby in my arms and I can’t believe how tiny
this little girl is, how every single finger is a bigger
miracle than anything I’ve seen in too many years.

Riding the railroad home, I’ll glide by abandoned
buildings, vacant lots and stalled construction sites,
wonder why I never wanted anything this wonderful
to happen to me, if I’ll miss it more the older I get.

I’ll think about what Jesse means to me, how easy
it is to be generous, to simply love him unconditionally
from far away and whether I’d turn into myself
become a selfish, impatient, too strict father up close.

But right now, Alexis Leigh is resting in my lap
occasionally yawning and stretching, letting
the pacifier slip out of her mouth and I’m rocking
gently doing all I can to keep her happy.

*

Table Talk

When what’s left of my family
gets together, we order out,
pizza, chicken. Unless I bring up
mom or dad, no one mentions
them and I try not to miss
Mom’s cooking most. Sometimes
my brother Jaime’s wife asks
my sister Donna about her sons
or husband, since no one’s
seen them in over five years.
They’re always doing, you know,
the same. Nobody ever says
our brother’s name, John.
They haven’t talked to him
since Mom died and he didn’t show
up to her funeral. I don’t remember
if it was because he didn’t agree
with the way we took care of her
at the end, how he never felt part
of it or they think he didn’t help
enough. Yeah, all of the above.
I’ve seen him twice since, lunches
at diners with friends we played
schoolyard ball with. I call maybe
monthly, make sure he’s alive.
He never picks up his cell, but calls
back days later. We talk sports
for a bit. He tells me about cats
and I pretend to listen. We end up
arguing politics, viciously. I sent him
a check this frigid winter. Around
the table, I learn my niece got
her driver’s license last month,
they’re shopping for a new car
and visiting colleges. Definitely
nothing urban or too crowded.
My nephew’s trying out for tennis
If the rain stays away after school
Monday. A freshman, he thinks
he has a chance to make varsity,
a definite for jay-vee. I am tempted
to bring up my new book, maybe
mention I’m starting to feel my age,
running out of breath walking up
subway steps, that scary time
carrying laundry to the corner
like Santa shouldering a sack,
the last thirty feet or so, feeling
light-headed. veering to the right
like a drunk starting to topple
over, balancing myself against
the building’s wall. Instead,
I ask Daniel to pass me
some more mac n cheese.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review. His collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and his new book Here On Earth came out 1/26 on NYQ Books.

Kew & Willow Books Friday March 20 by Tony Gloeggler

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Kew & Willow Books
Friday March 20

Sending out announcements
for a couple of upcoming readings,
I remember when I featured
more regularly and I felt like
a dad selling raffles at work
for his kid’s basketball team
or boxes of Girl Scout Cookies,
counting on a combination
of obligation, guilt and pure
selfless favor to fill the seats
because nobody in my real life
gave a crap about poetry
and I knew if I didn’t write it,
I wouldn’t either. I often wondered
how annoyed or bored they’d be
if/when they showed up, hoping
they could at least look at it
as a night out. They probably
felt the way I did attending
my sister’s dance recital
at the RKO Keiths’, June
of every year, that old fashioned,
fancy-assed cavern of a movie
theater in downtown Flushing
with the ornate architecture, oil
paintings hanging in the lobby.
No, popcorn, Pepsi didn’t help.
The older Donna got, the longer
it took before her class made
their way across the stage. Mom
and dad would squirm, scooch up
in their seats, get excited and point
her out. Three times a show: tap,
ballet and the way cool acrobatics,
finally working her way to an added
4th appearance, a spotlight solo. Once
at a holiday dinner, I complained
about her constantly posing in front
of mirrors, doing flips and cartwheels,
pirouettes and headstands, craving
for attention while we were trying
to watch TV. It was such a big deal,
getting dressed up, dad or grandpa
handing her a bouquet of roses, endless
smiles and photos. She got mad, brought
up all the baseball, basketball games
of mine daddy watched, the years
he coached, how dinner was moved up.
I apologized, but thought, he actually
liked sports. Besides it gave him new
and exciting places to yell at me. Laughing,
she talked about the time he made me cry
on the mound at Colden Field. I nodded,
said remember Grandpa, the crowded
lobby on the way out one year, how
he stepped into the fountain, splashed
down to his knees, yelling his famous
Son Of A B, everybody turning,
and looking, mom helping him stand,
then folding over, unable to stop
laughing. Yes, that was the best.

This Friday, March 20 at 6:00 PM,
I’m reading at Kew & Willow Books.
Admission’s free and there’s an open,
bring poems if you got ‘em. Click link
at the bottom for the address. PS:
I got a new book. Bring money too.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review. His collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and his new book Here On Earth came out 1/26 on NYQ Books.

Reorganizing by Tony Gloeggler

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Reorganizing

Even though he knows exactly
what he wants every time,
Jesse loves browsing random
aisles. If it’s our first time
in the store, clerks shadow us
as if we’re black or homeless.
Jesse always ends up stopping
by the chips and pretzels, bending
down or reaching up and touching
different packages, tracing
his fingers lightly over the bright
labels, scrunching his face
as if he’s thinking, struggling
with a life-altering decision, finally
grabbing the biggest bag of Extra
Spicy Doritos. If the clerk starts
to say something, I’ll tell Jess
it’s time to go, mention our next
planned stop, but sometimes
he’ll move his face real close
to mine, give me those widened,
pleading blue eyes and say

Re       Or       Gon       NIze

In a sing song tone. I’ll hang
my arm around his shoulder
as Jesse hums some homemade
melody and aligns the remaining
pretzels, crackers and chips
in straighter lines, a more perfect
order, propped closer to the front
of the shelf, easier for customers
to view, choose. I try to ignore
the clerk when he changes
his posture, moves his hands
and makes impatient sounds.
When he walks away, satisfied
Jesse won’t steal or damage
anything, I think about my place.

Anything left in the fridge worth
eating? Maybe time for a new
mattress, a new frying pan?
At 72, do I need to install a steel
bar to grab when stepping in,
out of the tub? Should I begin
getting rid of the CDs I’ll never
play again, and that bookcase
by the door, stocked with journals
and all my published poems?
Will they wind up left on the curb
like my shoe boxes full of baseball
cards and gold-plated trophies
of figures cast in batting stances
when I moved out of my parents’?
Probably time to find a lawyer
specializing in people like Jesse,
set up a special fund for him
that won’t affect, take away,
the SSI/Medicaid benefits
that provide the support staff
he will need as long as he lives.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review. His collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and his new book Here On Earth came out 1/26 on NYQ Books.

Probably by Tony Gloeggler

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Probably

Probably a good thing
I never had kids. Good
for them too. Besides
being uncertain whether
I’m capable of unconditional
love beyond tiny bursts
of time, if two or three
popped out, I doubt
I could keep a straight
face, like all parents do,
when saying I love them
all the same. I’d be more
like Dick Clark standing
in front of that Bandstand
chart, revealing the week’s
top ten hits with a bullet or two,
shooting for the stars. Could
I ever forget which kid’s nice
and quiet, funnier, smarter,
more comfortable in her own
skin? Which one will care for me
when I’m old, smelly and dying
too slow? While that other one
sucks at sports, is too naïve, likes
Mom better, has unforgivable
taste in music and is so damn
annoying it would be impossible
not to give him a good smack
like my father did to me
when I probably deserved it.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review. His collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and his new book Here On Earth came out 1/26 on NYQ Books.

Maintaining World Order by Tony Gloeggler

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Maintaining World Order

Jesse’s clear about yesses
and nos, picking what to do,
where to go, hardly any
hesitation involved when given
choices, and though he doesn’t
know what always or never means,
I can tell what not to bring up
ever again. He prefers patterns,
routine. Comfortable with schedules,
he looks forward to, cozies up
to calendars made a month
in advance, the boxes filled
with names of staff members,
time slots and activities fitting
neatly into place. Frequently
when walking, he repeats names,
days, months, years, seeking
reassurance that his world
will remain in proper order
from whoever’s working
with him at any given moment.
Maybe, let’s play it by ear,
we’ll see when we get there
brings minor, major disturbances.

Tony Friday October 11, 2024,
two nights, go home Sunday
October 13 10 AM. That’s me,
his mom’s once upon a time,
long ago boyfriend who’s known
him since he was 5 years old,
combination step-father, older
brother, death till we part friend.
Sometimes he’ll find a smooth
groove, verbally map out monthly
visits through the year 2027,
each date out of his mouth
landing savant-like on a Friday
for my typical weekend visit.
If I show up, walk in the door
a half hour early, he’ll look
away without a greeting, go
back to finishing next week’s
shopping list with Sawyer
while I drop my knapsack
on the floor, hit the bathroom.

He helps put everything
where It belongs, follows
Sawyer out to the porch,
asks when he’ll be back-
Monday October 14-until
the car door shuts, the motor
starts. Then, I’ll open my arms
for a less than ten second
hug, sit across the table, talk
about today’s schedule, write
it down starting with City
Bus to Bruegger’s Bagels,
ending with evening routine
7:30 PM. He then recites
my November return date,
waits to hear yes for sure.

On the walk to the bus stop,
he brings up Nick, a long time
worker who recently moved
out of state. He wants Nick
to take him to Jay’s Peak,
his favorite water park,
Thursday October 23, 2024.
Not Sawyer. He wants me
to tell him Nick’s name
will be back on November’s
calendar. I try to think of a way
to explain that he may never
see Nick again without upsetting
him too long when the bus
comes into view and we both
break into a trot. I hand Jesse
his pass, thank the driver
for waiting. He finds a seat,
stares out the window, hums
like a well-tuned engine.

If my name stopped appearing
on his calendar, I wonder
how long before he’d forget
about me? Jesse’s unable
to understand abstractions,
express feelings, and I’m left
to guess about things like that.
He always asks about mom’s
car, when will it be back
in the driveway, concern
crinkling his brow, panic
making its way down
his face if it’s gone too long.
I know she thinks about him
incessantly and at 62 years old
she worries what will happen
when she dies. Financially.
he’ll be sound, the house
in his name, but who will
take care of him, love him
like she does, will he
learn to move through
his world without her?

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Raleigh Review, BODY, Chiron Review. His most recent collection, 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.

ENOUGH by Tony Gloeggler

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ENOUGH

Jesse’s been in joyous mode,
humming and breaking into belly
laughter, my whole after Christmas
3 day visit. Sometimes it can spill
into his insistent, somehow still
charming, never enough, insatiable
manner, where he makes mad dashes
down super market aisles to grab
another bag of Doritos or press
his face against the huge glass
refrigerator chanting for one more
blue drink while I’m handing
money to the cashier and other
customers stare at him, wonder
what’s going on with this big guy.
Right now I’m trying to keep him
in line, pay for Dr Seuss’ Hop
On Pop and wait for my change,
holding his sleeve and promising
we’ll go back to Crow Books
January 17, 2025, my next visit,
as he looks into my eyes begging
for another book. I guide him through
the door, onto Church Street, both
of us laughing. Walking past the lit
tree on our way to the bus station
to catch my 3 o’clock airport ride,
a woman approaches, hands out,
asking for help. The closer she gets,
the louder, more desperate she sounds.
I put my arm around Jesse, quicken
our pace as she veers nearer. Head
down, I say sorry. I can almost hear
myself whispering, telling myself
I’m already taking care of Jesse,
isn’t that enough for me to do?
The woman follows us, yells
you ain’t sorry, fuck you. I know
I should reach in my pocket, give
her the four dollars and change
from the book. I could be a hero
and she’d be halfway to a holiday
lunch. But I keep walking, flying
home, trying to forgive myself.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His most recent collection, 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.

Two Poems by Tony Gloeggler

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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.

AUTISTIC EVENING ROUTINE by Tony Gloeggler

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AUTISTIC EVENING ROUTINE

Jesse walks through the living room,
grabs a broom to sweep the floor
before evening routine at 7:30 PM
when he sees mom coming around
the back, her part of the duplex, closing
the garden gate with the leather strap,
walking Oreo. Jesse dashes out the door,
skips across the blinking, Christmas lit porch
and she asks if he wants to come for a walk.
Yes, of course he does. So, go get dressed.
No, Tony doesn’t mind. Jesse hurries, finds
a long-sleeved shirt, socks, ski jacket, sneakers

Mom yells where’s your hat and Jesse turns around,
rushes back through the door, down basement
stairs. I hear whines, grunts, the way he says
where’s my blue hat, I always leave it here, before
I trudge down, ask what’s going on. We both start
looking, run all around the house. I say maybe
we left it on the bus. He says no on bus, makes
louder sounds. Mom comes in, searches too. When
we give up, she asks me to write information down.

We sit at a table. I ask for a few sit and breathes,
slow deep breaths please, then I print out big block
letters while reciting blue hat lost, blue hat gone,
goodbye blue hat, that’s it in my calm, level tone,
not my annoyed, cranky, end of the day voice. Just
put the orange one on, the one with polka dots and snow
flurries, they’re all the same. Jesse. do you even
like the dog? Jesse speed reads the note, pushes
it away, gets louder. I write down new hat tomorrow.
He says no tomorrow, stomps his feet. Me, mom,
exchange looks, worry an explosion’s near: teeth marks
on his forearm, head banging on the floor. She mouths
Target. We shrug shoulders and off they happily go.

Fifteen, twenty minutes, they’re back. He tosses a bag
on the table, a gray hat with a pack of briefs he opens.
Immediately he wants to cut off every tag from everything–
go get your scissors Jess–before anything else. Then,
all the briefs must go in basement bins. When mom asks
are you ready to walk Oreo, Jesse’s answer is a deep,
husky-throated no to show he means business: 7:30,
evening routine, brush teeth. I repeat evening routine,
7:30. He strides away satisfied. I start cracking up. Mom
looks at me funny. I say no walk dog tonight, point at Oreo
who looks like he’s got to pee real bad. Mom starts laughing.

*

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 Populi, Gargoyle, B O D Y. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here on Earth will be published by NYQ
Books in 2024.

Two Poems by Tony Gloeggler

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

REMINDERS

I didn’t guess the 12 year old
girl in the novel I’m reading
would get chronic kidney disease,
didn’t expect it would remind me
too often of the endless medical
appointments, bad news turning
worse, strict diet, limited liquid
intake, weighing like penance,
the drudgery of dialysis, three days
a week for three and a half hours
a session, the light headedness,
cramping. At least my brother
offered me a kidney, tested
as a perfect match. We went
into the hospital that summer,
his teacher-wife taking care
of their 2 young kids. My father,
already dead, didn’t have to track
down my wayward mother, fail
to convince her to be a donor.
When the girl’s condition
plummeted, they ended up
using a recently car-wrecked
stranger for the transplant.
The girl contracted pneumonia
a day after, died while I sat
stunned in my rocking chair,
the reading lamp burning,
too shaken to try and sleep.

*

SPECIAL NEEDS

One of my facebook friends
has put up one of those post
and paste things about special
needs kids, that they’re not
weird or odd and just want
to be accepted. He’s asking
me to share the statement
and I’m thinking he never
hung out with Jesse or Larry.
One’s autistic and I spend
a weekend a month with him
in Vermont. The other’s down
syndrome, my favorite guy
at the residence since day one.
They both love ripping things.
One goes to school wearing
a sweater, winter coat, comes
home on the school bus, his balls
semi-secure in a knotted dish rag,
a bath towel half draped over
his shoulders, shoes thrown
out the window. The other hums
happily in his room, shreds books,
cooking magazines. One pirouettes
like a chunky ballerina every half
block or so, refuses to ever wear
socks, punches himself under
his left eye when he’s pissed off.
This one time actually missing
his spot and hitting himself
right in the eye while I couldn’t
stop laughing at the shock
his face showed. The other
tosses rocks in lakes, little leaps
of joy when the stone plops
into the water. Both repeat
phrases endlessly. One bites
his arm when frustrated. Both
love pizza and French fries.
Neither really gives a fuck
what anyone thinks about them
as long as they’re treated well
by the people around them,
just don’t get in the way
of their routines. One barely
acknowledges the existence
of strangers. One loves hugs,
snuggling, while I need to ask
the other for hello, goodbye
squeezes. He’ll repeat sque-ee-eze,
lightly hold me for less than ten
seconds. Both laugh boundlessly.
Not exactly sure why, but I always
feel good around these two, find it
fascinating and fun, like my day’s
instantly injected with a dose
of happiness, glad to help them
do any of the things they love.

*

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Populi, Gargoyle. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and long listed for Jacar Press’ Julie Suk Award.