June 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.
Happy
Early Saturday night
and your phone rings.
Maybe it’s Nancy, asking
can she catch a cab,
come over? Can we try
again? No, it’s Doug.
He worked on two new poems
this morning and he thinks
they’re almost there. Mid day
he subwayed to the Bronx,
shot a round of golf. He said
he was happy: the sun,
the grass, the little white ball
rolling into holes. He felt good
going home to read Gatsby,
glad he wasn’t the guy sitting
across the train, looking
at his watch, straining
to catch his reflection
in the window. That guy
can’t be late. He’s meeting
the woman he loves
at seven thirty sharp
and he wants the part
in his hair to be perfect.
You’re not sure Doug’s
lying anymore. He sounds
convinced he’s better off
alone. Most nights, you’re
lonely too, trying hard
to believe the same thing.
Today you ate a late lunch
at a diner: bowls of cole
slaw, pickles, lean pastrami.
Outside, the day was setting
records for warmth in February.
Everybody was walking in twos,
holding hands and stepping
into stores like they were boarding
some ark. Your waitress wiped
a countertop. She looked nearly
as old and tired as you felt
and when the crowd thinned out,
she sat down. You both hated
the song playing on the radio.
She kept tipping the salt shaker,
moving her hands as she talked
about her six year old son.
She said she went to St. Ann’s
with your sister, her brother Danny
played little league with you.
You apologized for not remembering,
told her about the group home
you run in Brooklyn, that you want
to be a baseball player, a rock star
or a writer when you grow up.
When you asked if she’d mind
if you came by at the end
of her shift, she took one
of your cold french fries,
put it in her mouth, said ten,
ten thirty would be good.
-first published in The Last Lie, NYQ Books, 2010
Early Saturday night
and your phone rings.
Maybe it’s Nancy, asking
can she catch a cab,
come over? Can we try
again? No, it’s Doug.
He worked on two new poems
this morning and he thinks
they’re almost there. Mid day
he subwayed to the Bronx,
shot a round of golf. He said
he was happy: the sun,
the grass, the little white ball
rolling into holes. He felt good
going home to read Gatsby,
glad he wasn’t the guy sitting
across the train, looking
at his watch, straining
to catch his reflection
in the window. That guy
can’t be late. He’s meeting
the woman he loves
at seven thirty sharp
and he wants the part
in his hair to be perfect.
You’re not sure Doug’s
lying anymore. He sounds
convinced he’s better off
alone. Most nights, you’re
lonely too, trying hard
to believe the same thing.
Today you ate a late lunch
at a diner: bowls of cole
slaw, pickles, lean pastrami.
Outside, the day was setting
records for warmth in February.
Everybody was walking in twos,
holding hands and stepping
into stores like they were boarding
some ark. Your waitress wiped
a countertop. She looked nearly
as old and tired as you felt
and when the crowd thinned out,
she sat down. You both hated
the song playing on the radio.
She kept tipping the salt shaker,
moving her hands as she talked
about her six year old son.
She said she went to St. Ann’s
with your sister, her brother Danny
played little league with you.
You apologized for not remembering,
told her about the group home
you run in Brooklyn, that you want
to be a baseball player, a rock star
or a writer when you grow up.
When you asked if she’d mind
if you came by at the end
of her shift, she took one
of your cold french fries,
put it in her mouth, said ten,
ten thirty would be good.
-first published in The Last Lie, NYQ Books, 2010
©2015 Tony Gloeggler