Tony Gloeggler

A Good Bad Day

John walks slowly up the stairs
to my office every day. Between
four and four-thirty, after the bus
brings him home from day program
and after he uses the bathroom,
he says, “Oh, hello, Tony,” as if
he’s surprised to find me
sitting at my desk. He says
he had a good day, stands
by a chair, and after six years
of living at the residence,
his home, he still hesitates,
wonders if he needs permission
to sit down. I don’t give it,
wait until he sits on his own.
He tells me if he read or painted,
exercised or sang today and I ask
questions as if I was his mother.
Maybe he went to a park, a store,
the library. All along he wears
this pleasant, half smiling,
perfectly balanced, zen-like gaze
across his Fred Flintstone face
and I don’t know if I’m stressed
or bored, mean, or just a smart-ass
acting like we are friends;
but when he asks me about my day
sometimes I tell him the truth.

Uselessly endless meetings, piles
of paper work, asshole administrators.
Not enough sleep. Girl friend trouble.
Yesterday, I told him that a woman
I loved is getting married on a boat
in September and I wished
I owned a torpedo. He didn’t say
anything, just sat there smiling
and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it
I had to ask him if he ever
had a bad day. When he said no,
none that he could remember,
I said are you sure. He said
I don’t think so and looked like
he was thinking hard. I leaned
forward, said that I felt very sad
when my father died and I wondered
how he felt when his mom and dad
passed away. John jutted out his chin,
looked beyond me and said yeah
that was a bad day. When I asked
if he missed them, he chewed
on his lips, said sometimes,
and I said I know what you mean.

 

First published in Rattle

Final Journey

Sitting in BB King’s, finishing a burger
and fries, you wait for the house lights 
to dim and bring Johnny Clegg on stage
for this tour he’s called the final journey.
Cancer. You wonder how much he has left,
will he still tribal dance across the stage,
will his voice fill the room. A South African
super star who sells out stadiums, hardly anyone
you know knows his name. An ex-girlfriend
with two Peace Corps stints introduced you
to the seductive guitars, that chicken plucking
bass and soaring sax that make up his songs.
When the gale force of Clegg’s vocals bled
into do-wopping Zulu choruses that built
into battle cries, you were hooked. In and out
of prison for playing music with blacks, 
he left teaching to bring his Scatterlings
of Africa around the world with his bands
Juluka and Savuka. Looking back, you think
about his long time dance mate assassinated
during the years of civil unrest, that video
when Mandela sashayed across the stage
with his big assed background singer, her high
piercing voice summoning the holiest spirits.

And tonight, it’s all there. You’re clapping
along, singing loud as you can, banging
the table, dancing in your white boy way.
Skin tingles, eyes water and with the music
lifting it’s impossible to believe anyone’s
ever going to die. Fuck cancer. You forget
that woman, the shitty things she’s done,
how she’s prohibited you from writing
about her autistic son and used your words
to keep you from visiting him. The songs
carry you further back in time: she’s sitting
across the workshop table, blowing you away
with her first poem, her sharp blue eyes
brightening, growing fiercer as her words
build, explode, she’s taking a half skip
and a couple of strides to meet you under
a movie marquee on Bleecker or waiting
at a back table in that Italian restaurant
on Thompson, cheap, good and not too
crowded with that sausage and peas sauce
you never got enough of, at the airport
in Portland as she wraps her arms around
your neck, stands on tip toes to give you
one deep kiss, a few soft, lingering ones.
She fits her arm in yours, leads you
to the garage, a quick drive to her bed,
until it’s time to pick up her five year old
at school. You’re not thinking about sitting
at your desk finding words to put on paper
to celebrate her son’s life and everything
he still means to you. The music is as beautiful
and joyful as the moment Jesse opened the door 
to his apartment, let you in for your recent visit.

 

First published in Paterson Literary Review

Thanksgiving

Sitting around the table,
everyone’s staring at you.
No one has more reason
to be grateful than you. 
Your youngest brother
gave you a kidney last July
and now you’re dialysis
free, steadily reclaiming
parts of your life back.
You could tap your glass,
wait for quiet, lead everyone
in prayer and reach across
the table, plant a kiss
on Jaime’s cheek. Luckily,
you don’t do those kinds
of things in your family
and you’ve forgotten all
the prayers the nuns
forced you to memorize.

After surgery, your drowsiness,
that heavy anesthesia fog lingered,
faded slowly. You were in a bed,
a dark room. Your eyes darted
side to side, scanned the walls,
the ceiling, the light leaking
through the doorway. You slid
your hands up, down your body,
rotated your feet, clenched fists,
moved your head, left, right,
stretched your neck. All there
and in mostly working order,
you sunk back to sleep.

Others who had transplants
reported this immediate surge
of energy as if their whole being
was charged, a deep new breath
from the edge of a mountaintop,
the strength to lift a building
that collapsed on a frightened kid.
You never really believed that,
but were hoping to at least
open your eyes to a new world,
a wanderer waking to a distant
planet, looking for a new depth
behind every person’s eyes.

But already your feet are fitting
into slip on moccasins, stepping
onto your treadmill, riding
the F train to and from work,
clicking on lopsided Knicks games
when you get home, an occasional
movie, concerts now and then,
dinner with long time friends,
sharp stabs of loneliness,
sitting at your desk trying
to write something true,
struggling with everyday
worries, thinking, as always,
too much. All you can do
is reach for the alarm, lift
yourself out of bed, splash
water and wash the dreams
out of your eyes. Breathe in,
breathe out, take one footstep
after another, do what you do,
try to believe it’s good enough.

 
First published in Rosebud

 

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.