July 2015
I probably started writing because nobody I knew was talking about the things I was feeling and thinking. Mostly my poems are attempts at finding some sort of connection on a different level—and I think that’s what I am still trying to do. If you want to check out more of my work, my books include ONE WISH LEFT with Pavement Saw Press and THE LAST LIE with New York Quarterly Books. UNTIL THE LAST LIGHT LEAVES which focuses on my relationship with a an ex-girlfriend’s autistic son and my more than 30 years managing group homes for the developmentally disabled is forthcoming with NYQ Books.
My Other Life
I live on the outskirts
of some controllable city
in Virginia or Vermont.
Most mornings, I jog two
miles, eat balanced breakfasts,
glance at my watch often.
Gene Hackman reads
a Grisham novel or Kenny G
plays his sax softly
whenever I drive. My cell phone
nestles between my legs
and I’m counting on a big
Christmas bonus, my rumored
promotion come June.
I am, of course, married.
Her name is Harriet May
and she always calls me honey
or darling in a gentle tone.
Her blonde hair is cut short
and she works part time
at the Children’s Hospital.
We live in a two story
townhouse with tall windows.
The neighbors are all white
and English is their first
and only language. We wave
to each other across lawns
and bushes, sometimes stop
to plot weekend barbecues.
Jordan and Will, our two boys,
are still young enough to kiss me
without blushing. They want
to be figure skaters, lawyers,
ministers when they grow up.
I make sure they eat
vegetables, brush their teeth
before bed. In another year or two,
I’ll buy them guns, teach them
to hunt and shoot responsibly.
In my other life
my father is still alive.
He saw the best specialists
and they found a donor
in time. Insurance covered
the cost and bill collectors never
call during dinner. He and mother
will spend Christmas with us.
They’ll say we’re spoiling
the children, then tiptoe
into their bedrooms, fill
their piggy banks with tens
and twenties. They’ll talk
about Brooklyn, sick and dead
relatives, remember the names
of the four women I swore
I couldn’t live without. We’ll laugh,
wonder what the hell was I thinking,
filling all those spiral notebooks
like I was some kind of Steinbeck
or Dylan, Springsteen, Carver
-first published in The Last Lie, NYQ Books, 2010
I live on the outskirts
of some controllable city
in Virginia or Vermont.
Most mornings, I jog two
miles, eat balanced breakfasts,
glance at my watch often.
Gene Hackman reads
a Grisham novel or Kenny G
plays his sax softly
whenever I drive. My cell phone
nestles between my legs
and I’m counting on a big
Christmas bonus, my rumored
promotion come June.
I am, of course, married.
Her name is Harriet May
and she always calls me honey
or darling in a gentle tone.
Her blonde hair is cut short
and she works part time
at the Children’s Hospital.
We live in a two story
townhouse with tall windows.
The neighbors are all white
and English is their first
and only language. We wave
to each other across lawns
and bushes, sometimes stop
to plot weekend barbecues.
Jordan and Will, our two boys,
are still young enough to kiss me
without blushing. They want
to be figure skaters, lawyers,
ministers when they grow up.
I make sure they eat
vegetables, brush their teeth
before bed. In another year or two,
I’ll buy them guns, teach them
to hunt and shoot responsibly.
In my other life
my father is still alive.
He saw the best specialists
and they found a donor
in time. Insurance covered
the cost and bill collectors never
call during dinner. He and mother
will spend Christmas with us.
They’ll say we’re spoiling
the children, then tiptoe
into their bedrooms, fill
their piggy banks with tens
and twenties. They’ll talk
about Brooklyn, sick and dead
relatives, remember the names
of the four women I swore
I couldn’t live without. We’ll laugh,
wonder what the hell was I thinking,
filling all those spiral notebooks
like I was some kind of Steinbeck
or Dylan, Springsteen, Carver
-first published in The Last Lie, NYQ Books, 2010
©2015 Tony Gloeggler