Tony Gloeggler

Wish

A woman who looks a lot like the woman you loved last summer
walks down Houston Street while you're looking out the window
waiting for the woman you recently met to return from the rest
room so the waitress can take your order. She's wearing something
that might be the Betsey Johnson coat she bought on sale in August.
It's off-white, sort of feathery, and you remember nodding,
saying it looked good, yeah real good, when she stepped out of bed,
slipped it on over her sleep warm skin and modeled it
around the room. You loved the way it was cut, how it showed off
her ass, perfectly contrasted her dark cunt hair. The collar
is turned up and a purple scarf covers her nose and mouth
like some underground terrorist. Still, the way she holds her head,
how her long easy strides eat up the sidewalk reminds you
of summer and the night she took you home to meet her cats
and you sat down on her couch and kissed until it was time
for you to take the F train all the way back to Brooklyn.

Tonight the waitress is bending over beautifully.
Her breasts are rising and swelling as she leans
even closer while the woman you recently met
glides across the room, touches your shoulder and sits
down. She's tattooed and pierced in all her secret places
and tonight could be the night you get to suck and bite
each one. But while you're deciding if you should step outside
and chant the woman from last summer's name, she keeps walking.
She's heading north on Avenue A, turning right on Second and climbing
those same four flights while the woman sitting across from you is saying
she's got this thing for older guys and she can't stop thinking about you.
Your dick is thicker and it's throbbing harder than you thought
possible, and you wish it wasn't true, but you would forget
this woman, her full lips, tonight, and all the nights you will ever
spend with her, if you could only watch the woman you loved rattle
through the cabinets and get down on one knee and feed her cats.

First published in Stirring

Luck

Surprised by the bright redness
idling in my driveway, I breathe
the new car smell in as I strap
the seat belt around me, latch it.
My younger brother’s behind
the wheel, back on the road
again. It could be 25 years ago,
any softball Sunday morning.
Except he’s not hung over
and there’s no beer can sweating
between his thighs. The same
forties music that played
from Grandpa’s kitchen radio
swings from the speakers,
the Andrews Sisters singing
about apple trees, boys
coming home safe and soon.
I almost say something sarcastic
about picking the music
since I lent him the money
to buy this car, but I promised
myself I’d keep quiet. John
has thanked me too many
times already and I’m happy
he’s somehow stopped drinking
without any help from a higher
power. Since we put the bats
and balls away, he’s grown louder
and louder about Trump and Hillary,
immigration and witch hunts,
the way our youngest brother
is raising his kids without religion.

When this beeping sound starts,
he shakes his head, grabs
the breathalyzer and blows
into it like he’s trying to stretch
a single into a double
as red letters slide across
the tiny screen, telling him
he passes so he’s free to keep
driving and begin complaining
about the damn thing going
crazy every ten minutes,
how it makes him take his eyes
off the road, the skyscraping cost
of his insurance, the nearly nine
years his license was suspended
when I reach for the radio
hoping to find a summer song
filled with sunlight or some
loud annoying announcer
going on and on about John
and his blessed good luck,
how he never killed anyone
the hundreds of times he drove
drunk, until he finally shuts up.

First published in Chiron Review

 

Wedding

This summer, I went to a Jewish
wedding at a winery. Of course
I thought of you. It was warm,
sunny and most of the men wore
yarmulkes. The women carried
parasols. I was dressed in my best
black jeans, a dark sports jacket
and no tie. You would have probably
carried one in your bag, tied it
around my neck in the car
and I would have complained
all day. The rabbi was short, stubby
and talked too long. The groom,
my first boyhood Flushing friend
stepped on a wine glass
and Wouldn’t It Be Nice
played as he kissed the bride
and they strolled down the aisle.

You would have remembered
our first date. Jesse Colin Young
had cancelled and we ate Italian
food in the Village. Too early to end
the evening and both of us living
with our parents’, we went back
to my house, my basement room.
I put on Pet Sounds, played Surf’s
Up a few times to show you why
I liked The Beach Boys better
than the Beatles and you should
too. I walked you home, not holding
hands. Our shoulders touched,
I think, accidentally. At your door,
you leaned closer, kissed me
with a tint of tongue. Surprised
and not knowing what to do
with my hands, I squeezed
your ass with my right hand
once. You didn’t mind, maybe
even, I hoped, pulled me closer.

I didn’t know anybody except
the couple, his mom and younger
brothers and we talked about
our schoolyard superstar days,
told stories about our dead fathers’.
Maybe you would have mentioned
your sister’s wedding, back
when we were living together,
whether I could attend or not,
how I would be introduced,
the never talked about, non-Jew
you loved, where I would sit
and eat, what I might say. Really,
I never wanted to go, but felt
I should be there, that I belonged
with you. Happy to stay home
that day, I played a softball
double header, ate meat balls
at my mom’s. When she asked
about you, I explained about
the wedding, the complications.
I could tell she was offended
as she walked toward the oven
and instantly almost innocently
said that they were the Jewish ones.

The band played Motown soul
only crunchier. No, I still
can’t dance; but I imagined you
gracefully translating ancient
Grateful Dead-head sways and twirls
into classic R&B white girl grooves.
And yes, I would have danced the slow
ones with you. We’d both remember
the one time you talked about getting
married. Lying in bed, I was happy,
completely in love, expecting to stay
that way and didn’t see any reason
to change a thing, deal with our families.
Maybe we’d wonder why we never
talked about it again. Or maybe
I wouldn’t be thinking at all.
I’d just hold you tight, shut
my eyes, and let you lead me
wherever you wanted to go.

First published in Main Street Rag

 

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, Vox Populi, Gargoyle and Raleigh 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.