May 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.
Arrangements
I sit at the head
of the table now.
The funeral director
opens his book, shows
pictures of caskets,
flower arrangements, quotes,
prices. I turn pages, point,
nod. My mother chooses
a wool suit for him
to wear. “His favorite,”
my sister says twice.
It’s navy blue,
like my catholic school
uniform. I remember
that first Monday morning
how he wiped a clear space
in the steamed-up mirror,
crouched behind me, knotted
my tie and splashed a bit
of Old Spice on my face.
There will be two days
to view the body
at Duden’s funeral home
back in Brooklyn. Last Christmas,
I drove him to Midnight Mass.
When he asked me to come
inside, I coughed, said, “Dad,
you know I stopped believing
years ago.” He grabbed
the door handle, answered,
“Not even tonight?”
I touched the radio knobs,
told him I’d be out front
by one. I drove halfway
down the block, stopped
and watched in the rear view
mirror, the way he gripped
the railing as he climbed
the steps carefully, paused
at the door and tried
to catch his breath.
Mass will be at St Lucy’s,
ten o’clock, Tuesday morning.
Father Eugene will lead the service
and I will read the eulogy.
Faith
You find it hard to believe
in any kind of God: Priests,
little boys, countless kept secrets;
Israelis, Palestinians, that dirty war
over somebody’s idea of holy land;
Your girlfriend’s autistic son,
and how she stopped loving you
suddenly; the sharp, numbing
loneliness. Yet, every morning
You reach across the mattress
quiet that bleating alarm,
sit up, still half asleep,
ready to do whatever
the hell it is you now do.
Credit: "Arrangements" and "Faith" initially appeared in The New York Quaterly.
I sit at the head
of the table now.
The funeral director
opens his book, shows
pictures of caskets,
flower arrangements, quotes,
prices. I turn pages, point,
nod. My mother chooses
a wool suit for him
to wear. “His favorite,”
my sister says twice.
It’s navy blue,
like my catholic school
uniform. I remember
that first Monday morning
how he wiped a clear space
in the steamed-up mirror,
crouched behind me, knotted
my tie and splashed a bit
of Old Spice on my face.
There will be two days
to view the body
at Duden’s funeral home
back in Brooklyn. Last Christmas,
I drove him to Midnight Mass.
When he asked me to come
inside, I coughed, said, “Dad,
you know I stopped believing
years ago.” He grabbed
the door handle, answered,
“Not even tonight?”
I touched the radio knobs,
told him I’d be out front
by one. I drove halfway
down the block, stopped
and watched in the rear view
mirror, the way he gripped
the railing as he climbed
the steps carefully, paused
at the door and tried
to catch his breath.
Mass will be at St Lucy’s,
ten o’clock, Tuesday morning.
Father Eugene will lead the service
and I will read the eulogy.
Faith
You find it hard to believe
in any kind of God: Priests,
little boys, countless kept secrets;
Israelis, Palestinians, that dirty war
over somebody’s idea of holy land;
Your girlfriend’s autistic son,
and how she stopped loving you
suddenly; the sharp, numbing
loneliness. Yet, every morning
You reach across the mattress
quiet that bleating alarm,
sit up, still half asleep,
ready to do whatever
the hell it is you now do.
Credit: "Arrangements" and "Faith" initially appeared in The New York Quaterly.
©2015 Tony Gloeggler