Daylight Savings
When I climb out
of the subway, the sun
still sits in the sky. I take
the long way home, cut
through the park. Boom
boxes beat hip hop
and the basketball courts
are jammed with brothers
running full out. I curl
my fingers around fence
links, taste sweat
wetting my lips, whisper
“I got next.” Girls straddle
benches, stand in circles
waving cigarettes, heads
flung back, flicking smoke
signals. A grandfather
underhands a fat wiffle ball.
The little kid swings, hits
a humpbacked fly. I trot
a few steps, catch it
over my shoulder like Mays
in ‘54. I grab a slice
with extra cheese. Squeeze
melons, mangos, nectarines.
Pick up laundry and unlock
my mail box. Home. One
more hour of light to kill
remembering my father died
February first, that the last
time I slept with a woman
was nearly seven months ago
in Corrales, New Mexico
and I didn’t love
one thing about her.
The Last Good Thing
It was the Sunday
my father felt strong
enough to get out
of bed, take baby steps
to the bathroom. He fumbled
with buttons, tugged the top
over his head, unsnapped
his bottoms and let them
slide down his legs. Crouched
like a catcher, I untangled
his pajamas, removed
his slippers as he sat
down to piss. I ran
the bathwater, tested it,
turned on the shower.
He grabbed my arm, leaned
on the sink and lifted
himself to his feet, stepped
into the tub. The water
hit his neck, rolled
off his shoulders. I watched
his eyes shut, lips
part and whisper sighs
soft as first kisses brushed
on park benches. I lathered
up the sponge, scrubbed
his back. When water
splashed my glasses, soaked
my clothes, I stripped
down to boxers, stepped
in with him and walked
all the way to Brooklyn:
My father crosses Stockholm Street
carrying his tools. He straddles
the Johnny Pump, pulls,
bangs and yanks until
water explodes, roars out
of the hydrant’s mouth
and the block of kids cheer
like he’s some God
sending down rain. Afraid
of slipping, he turned
slowly, gripping my shoulders.
I took my time, soaped
under his arms, between
his legs. When I stood,
he pulled me close, tightened
his arms around me, kissed
my neck. I tried not to cry
when he said he could stay
like this forever, stay
until he died, until
the hot water got cold.
Bio: Tony Gloeggler has always lived in NYC. He has managed group homes for developmentally disabled folks for over 40 years. His poems have appeared in journals and anthologies since the late 80s and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize a number of times. His chapbook, One on One, won the 1998 Pearl Poetry Prize. His first full length collection, ONE WISH LEFT, published by Pavement Saw Press, went into a second printing in 2007. His most recent books include, WHAT KIND OF MAN (NYQ Books, 2020), UNTIL THE LAST LIGHT LEAVES (NYQ Books, 2016), was a finalist for the Milt Kessler Poetry Book Award in 2016, and THE LAST LIE (NYQ Books, 2010).
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