Tony Gloeggler

Detroit

When you step up to the ticket window,
the sweet smiling sexy twenty-year-old
hands you your ticket and change, says
she likes your shirt, a deep purple tee
with a print of an Indian chief on horseback,
his war-bonneted head raised high, leaning
back triumphantly, arms spread wide
taking the whole world in and celebrating
the Beach Boys, fifty years of harmony.
You stand there, wonder how weird
it would be to dub her a mixed CD
of Brian’s little-known gems. You’d joke,
explain that you are part of an official
musical mission and all women as beautiful
as her should have a little holiness sprinkled
in with her fun fun fun. As you walk in,
she tells you their songs never grow old,
unlike you, who is trying not to imagine
her undressing, your hands lightly cupping
the curve of her ass. It’s a mid-week matinee
and the theater is nearly empty. You could sit
in the back row, jerk off if you wanted to,
but the movie is Detroit and the smooth,
shiny Motown grooves of the Temptations,
Martha and her Vandellas, Marvin, Tammi,
fill in every background lull and build up
tension when A Little Bit Of Soul slips in,
brings you back to Queens, stickball in the street,
throw it up and hit a Spaldeen two sewers long
while Eddie Berne’s band rehearsed, singing
You gotta make like you wanna kneel and pray
And then a little bit of soul will come your way
over and over in his garage for Friday night’s
St Ann’s dance. Jackie, the third best player
in the neighborhood is starting to sprout tits.
She’d probably laugh, make a face or punch
you in the shoulder if you asked her to dance
or mentioned anything about her sister sitting
on her porch, strapped to a wheelchair,
spastically waving her arms and moaning
the day away. At thirteen, you didn’t know
anyone black. Everyone was Irish or Italian
or Jewish. A Chinese guy owned the laundry.
Sometimes you’d stand in the doorway,
make deep loud guttural sounds until
he came out shaking his fists and yelling
gibberish as you ran down the block, out
of breath, and laughing. Back on the screen,
Detroit is burning. The cops closed down
an all black after-hours spot, piled everyone
into vans as a simmering crowd gathered.
The colored folks went crazy and the police
went crazier and everyone knows the cops
will get away with everything in the end.

First published in Chiron Review

God’s Gifts

It’s the kind of day that feels like a gift
from God. An early April morning
with temperatures already flirting
with sixty degrees. Bright blue skies,
a few wispy clouds and a whisper
of breeze lifting the short skirts
of women that make you want to sing
hymns of praise. One of those days
you can’t resist, a day that forces you
to cut class or call out from work
so you can spread a newspaper
across a table at the corner café.
Waiting for pancakes, sunny
side eggs, you turn to sports,
believe all the Yankee veterans
will have one more injury free year
and their prize prospect will exceed
every bit of hype. Later, you’ll walk
to the schoolyard, get picked for a three
on three. You are totally unstoppable
and your squad streaks to a string
of six straight wins. You call Suzanne
who says she can get away, meet you
by Prospect Park. You stroll along
holding hands, stop for soft serve
ice cream with sprinkles and lick
the slow drippings off of each other’s
fingers. spread a blanket behind a bunch
of bushes and make out. Coming up
for air, she promises to leave her husband.

But no, today you are waiting for the late
as always Access-A-Ride to drive you
to dialysis. You’ll sit in the waiting room,
listen for your mispronounced name
to come through the speakers. You’ll lie
back while the machine removes liquid,
filters your blood for three hours as you try
to fall asleep, but can’t. You feel colder
and colder and closer to cramping
as you watch the clock creep forward,
the orderlies lift the one-legged woman
into her wheelchair. Home, you fix a bland,
tasteless lunch, drink a few sips of water,
limp to your bedroom and let your clothes
drop down to the floor. You nap restlessly,
dream of a smiling Suzanne, happily married,
living in Austin with two kids. You wake up
with a splitting headache in time to catch
the Yankee game. Five games under 500,
their starting pitcher gives up a first inning,
two out, three run homer and they helplessly
keep leaving runners on base as the game
grinds on. Between pitches, you remind
yourself that dialysis is keeping you alive,
and that you are happy not to be dead yet
as you pray for one full night of sleep.

First published in Cape Rock

 

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Book Of Matches, Crab Creek Review. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and long listed for Jacar Press' Julie Suk Award.