Tony Gloeggler

Poet 

The first time anyone  
said my name and used  
the word poet next to it  
was in the early nineties. 
I was part of William Packard’s 
workshop and after class 
he told me about this reading  
celebrating New York Quarterly’s  
30th anniversary. He declared 
in his booming Orson Wells voice  
that I would read one poem 
and I knew I couldn’t say no.  

I dressed in my best black jeans 
and faded denim shirt, found 
the room in the NYU library 
and pointed at my name 
on the flyer when the pristine 
woman at the door asked me 
for 10 dollars. I would read  
somewhere in the middle, 
between Michael Moriarty 
and Amari Baraka and already 
I was nervous, trying to sneak 
glances at the spiral notepaper 
my poem was scribbled on. 

Moriarity read in the voice 
he saved for Shakespeare 
or the sermon on the mount 
and I expected the cheese 
and crackers to turn into steak 
and lobster. No, I can’t say  
I understood what his poem  
was trying to be about, but back  
home I started watching Law  
and Order religiously. Baraka’s 
spit flew through his fifteen  
minute rant and he grew  
blacker and angrier by the line 
and I was hoping we’d make it 
through the evening riot-free.  
An elegant woman mispronounced  
my name and described me 
as the kind of young, promising 
poet who would help NYQ move 
its future in the right direction 

My poem was twenty-five 
bare boned lines, without a rhyme  
or metaphor in sight, spoken 
in plain every day language  
about my father. Dinner  
was winding down, him 
and me were the only ones 
left at the table. He changed  
chairs, hunched closer to me 
and told me they were cutting 
back at the factory. He was fifty 
years old and if he lost his job 
he wouldn’t know what to do. 

My father would never say 
anything like that to anyone 
and I just looked at him 
until he got up and went 
into the living room. I read 
in a too low voice that seemed 
to be hoping to crack and act 
like some kind of man. After, 
I thought some girls would talk 
to me, tell me how deeply  
my poem moved them 
as they touched my arm  
and said they’d love  
to see all of my work, 
but their fathers’ were not  
like mine and no I’d never 
be the kind of guy  
they’d either take home 
for one regrettable night 
or to meet their mom. 
Instead, I drank a little  
more wine, thanked Packard  
for including me and took  
the subway back to Flushing, 
the place where I belonged.  

I tried to read my book, but kept  
thinking about what it meant 
being a poet. Mostly I was glad  
no one I hung out with or knew, 
suspected I could spend hours  
in my room writing and cutting 
my poems down to size. No one  
would call me a faggy artist,  
ask me to stand on a car hood  
and start rhyming when the night  
got long and everyone grew  
bored with everything and still  
were too scared to head home  
to our ever-shrinking lives.  
But deep down, I felt sure,  
if I ever met Moriarty and Baraka 
in a late-night alley, my poem  
would kick both of their poems’ asses  
with its hands tied behind its back. 

First published in Nerve Cowboy 

 

2B 

I am the man who lives 
In apartment 2B. I go 
To work, come back late, 
Pick up the mail, throw 
Garbage down the chutes. 
I nod, smile at neighbors, 
Speak in short sentences 
Keep my doorstep clean, 
Buy candy bars from kids 
Who knock at my door, tip 
The janitor at Christmas 

The phone rarely rings 
And no one visits. 
I keep the windows shut, 
Shades down. The walls 
Are bare, painted 
Bone-white. The tub 
Needs scrubbing and I never 
Make the bed. My wife 
Took my two daughters, 
Moved to Phoenix in April, 
And my last good kiss 
Was six months ago. 

Tonight, I will open 
White cartons, eat beef 
And Broccoli with chopsticks, 
Watch the Knicks beat 
The Pistons on cable, sit 
At my desk, try to write 
One perfect line. I’ll shut 
All the lights, lie down 
In bed, rub my cock 
As though I were Aladdin. 

First published in NYQ 

 

Stuck Between Stations 

Waiting for the first pitch 
at approximately 7:10 
of tonight’s Yankee game, 
I’m watching Mahmoud Kahlil  
on Spectrum News describe 
his arrest, detainment without 
charges or access to a lawyer, 
his transfer to an ICE detention 
center somewhere in Louisiana, 
the inhumane conditions, missing  
the birth of his first child. While  
waiting to change channels,  
I see a red headline slide across  
the screen’s bottom: active  
shooter in a midtown office. 

All game long, I go back  
and forth between a first inning  
two run homer by the visiting  
Rays off the Yankee rookie  
right hander making his third  
major league start to a reporter  
at the scene, cop cars, fire 
trucks, ambulances, their lights  
pulsing over her shoulder,  
sending it back to the studio 
and a photo of a man caught  
mid-stride heading toward  
345 Park Avenue with a rifle  
hanging by his side. From  
the Yankees tying the score  
in their half of the inning, thanks  
to a single, 2 hit batters, 2 walks,  
back to a hazy photo of the shooter, 
Shane Temura’s Texas license  
for carrying a concealed weapon  
as the reporter mentions 
a history of mental problems.  

The Rays pitcher settles down,  
retires 14 Yankees in a row  
while sketchy, slow to confirm 
details, come in. The Rays   
take a 2-run lead to the ninth  
as the building’s situation  
is secured, an off-duty NYC 
officer in uniform, providing  
extra security, shot and killed,  
unnamed awaiting family  
notification. The shooter  
turned the gun on himself,  
dead, 3, no 4, civilians shot.  
Bottom of the ninth, 2 outs,  
the Yanks’ new third baseman  
singles, next batter scorches  
a liner to the right center gap  
and the Rays center fielder  
makes a full speed, outstretched 
glove crashing into the wall  
catch. Game over. Yankees lose. 

At the 10:30 press conference,  
NYC Police Commissioner  
Jessica Tisch steps to the mic,  
opens a folder and reads  
in her best Joe Friday, just  
the facts play by play voice,  
as far as we know now, subject  
to change, starting with multiple  
9-1-1 calls at 6:28 PM for an active  
shooter, 345 Park Avenue, corner 
of 52nd Street. A male exiting  
a double-parked black BMW,  
entered the building, turned  
right, immediately opened 
fire, shooting an NYPD Police  
Officer and a woman hiding  
behind a pillar. Proceeding  
to an elevator bank, still  
spraying shots, the shooter  
killed a security officer,  
another woman, another man. 
The elevator door opened 
and a woman got off,  
who he allowed to walk by  
unharmed. He stepped off  
at the 33rd floor, started 
shooting, striking one more  
person who died. He proceeded  
down the hall, stopped to shoot  
himself in the chest, died. 

Trying to find sleep,  
I think about the fast 
approaching trade dead 
line, if there’s any way  
the Yanks can pick up  
2 shut-down relievers 
and a solid starting pitcher 
without giving up any top 
prospects and I can’t stop, 
thinking about that woman  
stepping off the elevator,  
walking through the lobby,  
out the door and into the street,  
leaving the bleeding bodies  
behind. Did she call  
Uber to take her home?  
Did someone meet her 
at the door with hugs 
and tears? Did she sit  
down for dinner, say  
a prayer of thanks, or  
like me, wonder how 
anyone can believe  
in a God that allows  
these kinds of things  
to keep happening?  
Did she shut the lights,  
Did she get any sleep?  
I did.               Finally. 

 

 

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC who managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His poems have appeared in Rattle, New Ohio Review, Raleigh Review, Vox Populi, One Art. His most recent collection, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and Here On Earth is forthcoming on NYQ Books.