Tony Gloeggler

Spectrum

Your friend is worried his autistic son 
will never find love and you’re not sure  
he means that long time marriage, kid  
kind, or a breathless unexpected fling  
that lasts all summer long, or just holding  
the hand of his junior high girl, squeezing  
a bit tighter at a streetlight, yes even  
a neighborhood friend to hang with  
on a Sunday afternoon, talking shit,  
getting up to grab a couple of cold ones, 
rooting for his Buccaneers to beat  
the Buffalo Bills while he watches  
wearing a black eye patch over one eye  
or someone simply to like the nonsense  
he posts on Facebook. Probably any, all, 
would be welcome. And he’s worried  
about him talking too loud in a theater  
when hushed tension is building  
and his son starts going on and on, 
listing the snacks he wants to pick up  
on the way home, his voice straining  
louder when the guy two rows behind him  
trying to impress his new girlfriend, rises  
out of his seat and demands his son to shut  
the fuck up or one late night a cop stops him 
for a broken taillight and aims a flashlight  
in his son’s eyes and tells him to step out  
of the car? What will the cop do  
if his son’s hands pound the dashboard, 
punch the side of his head instead. 

First published in Talking River Review 

Last Supper 

Larry’s on the couch, laid out 
flat from the cocktail sedative  
we gave him for this morning’s 
dental exam. Head back, mouth  
hung open, he could be a closed 
down coal mine or a dead relative 
displayed in a bargain priced  
coffin. I joke with staff to check  
on his breathing while thinking 
about his dementia, the way  
it’s shrinking his world, how  
it won’t be too long before  
we’re all standing, hands  
folded, at the front of a Brooklyn 
church, holding back tears  
and then letting them fall 
while Larry rests in peace. 

These days, he just sits or lies  
around doing nothing except 
intermittingly slapping his face,  
banging his head or scratching 
his neck while his moans haunt 
the hallways. Staff supports 
his every step as he struggles 
from his bedroom to the bathroom, 
the dining room to the TV room. 
Still recognizing people, he grabs  
their hand and opens his arms  
for a hug that he hangs on to  
like it’s his life line. I feel shitty  
when I slink away, mention paper  
work I have to catch up with. 
He’s happiest when he’s eating.  
Soft or chopped up food he chews 
with quick tiny chipmunk bites 
and as soon as he’s finished, he takes 
his thumb, points to his mouth 
for more. We take him on special 
weekly outings to Dunkin Donuts, 
Mark’s Red Hook Pizzeria, Ikea 
hot dogs or always his favorite,  
Burger King, where he seems  
most like himself, light blue eyes  
all lit up, waving to everyone,  
laughing loudly. Our new worker  
Janel gets a glimpse of all  
she’s missed and I am reminded  
of who he was, how easily  
he enthralled us all, how deeply  
he smuggled into our hearts. 

Larry came from Willowbrook 
thirty-nine years ago, with half  
of his teeth gone and the rest  
rotting. Our nurse wrote a note  
describing his present condition,  
how eating is one of his last joys.  
His new dentist filled out the clinic  
visit sheet, typed he needed  
to extract all remaining teeth, 
Something about an infection  
getting into the blood, rushing 
to his heart. If it were me,  
I would rather go quickly  
into the good night. No one  
will ever know what Larry wants. 
Even in his younger days, he never 
could comprehend those kinds  
of questions. The state assigned  
case worker, the resident nurse, 
his psychologist, and me will fill  
out forms, present them in surrogate  
court. Three or four strangers  
will hand down a decision in less  
than ten minutes. Either way,  
when it’s over, we’ll drive straight 
to Burger King on Fulton and Larry 
will eat like it’s his last supper. 
   

First published in San Pedro Review 

 

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. Poems have been published in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Vox Gargoyle, BODY, One Art. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here on Earth will be published by NYQ Books.