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two poems
GOOD
After a week
of rain, it's sunny and May.
It's spring, you're walking Brooklyn streets
and you got this inkling that something good
could be beginning when you step to the side,
let a young mother wheel her stroller slowly by
and her smile reminds you of Diane. Ah Diane,
that years-ago girl with her shiny black skin
and wise-ass mouth, the tiny sound she made
the first time you undid the two top buttons
of her jeans, hooked your finger inside her
as you stood on the Bergen Street station
waiting for the F train to come. The way
she rocked herself to sleep the five weeks
you couldn't keep your hands off each other,
even after she told you that first morning
she was pregnant, maybe two months along.
You said you never would have guessed
and she said her breasts already felt bigger
and fuller and you kissed and sucked them
until you started fucking again. She never
mentioned the father and looked at you
like you were crazy when you asked about
an abortion. Somehow, she had it in her head
she was carrying a girl and named her Sydney.
She said she didn't give a shit if she turned
into a fat ass project mama like her mother.
It wasn't
too long before she started wondering
what was going on with you. You didn't know,
said you needed time while she kept coming over.
You tried convincing yourself you were in love,
pictured growing old together. She ended it
one Monday morning, saying it would never work.
You mumbled something about bad timing, how
much you would miss her. Mostly, you remember
trying to stop yourself from thinking you'd give
almost anything to fuck her one more time.
She got out
of bed, showered real quick and fit
her things into a red back pack while you threw on
sweat pants, wishing she was the kind of woman
you usually fell for, the kind who lived according
to some plan, the kind who believed abortion
was a right and a sacrament, the nice white kind.
When she wouldn't let you walk her to the subway,
you kissed her cheek at the door. You're pretty sure
you called a few times, left messages with cousins
as you counted down the months, feeling better
and better until you knew she was gone for good.
HAPPY
Early Saturday
night
and your phone rings.
Maybe it's Suzanne, 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
reading Gatsby again, 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 as 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 shortstop on your CYO team.
You apolgized 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.
Tony Gloeggler was born, grew up, lives and probably
will die in NYC. He currently runs a group home for
developmentally disabled men in Brooklyn. His work has
appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. His
chapbook, ONE ON ONE, won the 1998 Pearl Poetry Prize
and ONE WISH LEFT, his first full length collection,
was published by Pavement Saw Press in 2002. His next collection, My Other
Life, will be published by Jane Street Press by this summer. He can be
reached at AGloeggler@nyc.rr.com.
More of Tony's work is available on Poetz
2004 and Poetz
2002. |