October 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.
Reading and Writing
A woman who may
or may not be dying
from cancer is reading
out loud from her novel
in progress to a small group
of friends and acquaintances
in a West Village coffee shop.
Later, you overhear different
people say she looks good,
wonder if she’s wearing a wig,
maybe too much make-up..
The last time you talked,
she said she saw everything
different now, figured
out what was important:
herself, family, friends, herself
in occasionally shifting
order, and writing,
writing every day.
You went home early,
disappointed, sad. Nothing
she read stepped on
the subway with you,
leaned over, whispered
into your ear anything
that made a difference.
You were still alone, a bit
cold, still feeling sorry
for yourself and acting
like you were lost. After
you tossed your jacket
on the couch, boiled water
for tea, you sat down, picked
up a pen and wrote this,
then read it twice and knew
it couldn’t help anyone either,
and everyone, especially you,
is dying every day anyway.
-first published in The Last Lie (NYQ Books, 2010)
A woman who may
or may not be dying
from cancer is reading
out loud from her novel
in progress to a small group
of friends and acquaintances
in a West Village coffee shop.
Later, you overhear different
people say she looks good,
wonder if she’s wearing a wig,
maybe too much make-up..
The last time you talked,
she said she saw everything
different now, figured
out what was important:
herself, family, friends, herself
in occasionally shifting
order, and writing,
writing every day.
You went home early,
disappointed, sad. Nothing
she read stepped on
the subway with you,
leaned over, whispered
into your ear anything
that made a difference.
You were still alone, a bit
cold, still feeling sorry
for yourself and acting
like you were lost. After
you tossed your jacket
on the couch, boiled water
for tea, you sat down, picked
up a pen and wrote this,
then read it twice and knew
it couldn’t help anyone either,
and everyone, especially you,
is dying every day anyway.
-first published in The Last Lie (NYQ Books, 2010)
©2015 Tony Gloeggler