Tony Gloeggler

BORN ON THE BAYOU

You remember trying
to find a spot not too far
from the stage where
you could lean against
a ballroom wall, hoping
to not feel surrounded,
swallowed up by the sold-
out crowd. You don’t recall
the year. Shelley was there
with the one boyfriend of hers,
Russell, who wasn’t an asshole
and probably Goetsch, back
before his name became
Dianna instead of Douglas.
You were waiting for stage
lights to dim, musicians
to strap on guitars, perch
behind drums. John Fogerty
singing Creedence songs again,
years after boycotting them,
battling his record company,
bandmates, his older brother
Tom. You’d read or heard
the story that Dylan talked
to him, told him to get
his ass out there before
everyone believed Proud
Mary was a Tina Turner song
starting off nice and easy,
closing nice and r-rough-ff
with the shimmering short
skirts of the Ikettes, spinning,
twirling. That night, John
C. Fogerty strode across
the stage and the crowd
erupted. He gave a quick
wave, said something
no one could make out,
then that murky, swampy
sound started to rumble
from the ground up and
he roared into Born On
The Bayou, the redemption
and defiance, the fuck you,
this is me and this is all mine
hit us like lightning, raised
the roof with the electricity
lasting all night: Green River,
Bad Moon Rising, Who’ll Stop
The Rain, Up Around The Bend
and he still ain’t no Fortunate
Son, riding the subway with us
back to wherever we came from.

MY OTHER LIFE

I live on the outskirts
of some controllable city
in Virginia or Vermont.
Most mornings, I jog two
miles, eat balanced breakfasts,
glance at my watch often.
Gene Hackman reads
a Grisham novel or Kenny G
plays his sax softly
whenever I drive. My cell phone
nestles between my legs
and I’m counting on a big
Christmas bonus, my rumored
promotion come June.
I am, of course, married.
Her name is Harriet May
and she always calls me honey
or darling in a gentle tone.
Her blonde hair is cut short
and she works part time
at the Children’s Hospital.

We live in a two story
townhouse with tall windows.
The neighbors are all white
and English is their first
and only language. We wave
to each other across lawns
and bushes, sometimes stop
to plot weekend barbecues.
Jordan and Will, our two boys,
are still young enough to kiss me
without blushing. They want
to be figure skaters, lawyers,
ministers when they grow up.
I make sure they eat
vegetables, brush their teeth
before bed. In another year or two,
I’ll buy them guns, teach them
to hunt and shoot responsibly.

In my other life
my father is still alive.
He saw the best specialists
and they found a donor
in time. Insurance covered
the cost and bill collectors never
call during dinner. He and mother
will spend Christmas with us.
They’ll say we’re spoiling
the children, then tiptoe
into their bedrooms, fill
their piggy banks with tens
and twenties. They’ll talk
about Brooklyn, sick and dead
relatives, remember the names
of the four women I swore
I couldn’t live without.
We’ll wonder what the hell
was I thinking, filling
all those spiral notebooks
like I was some kind of Steinbeck
or Dylan, Springsteen, Carver.

POET IN THE FAMILY

My mother likes to remind me
how often my father told friends
from church, doctors and guys
he stopped playing softball with
about his son the poet, how proud
he was of me. I try to keep quiet,
forget he never said a word to me.
I ask if he ever read any of my poems.
She says of course. He liked the ones
about him best, even when I resurrected
the times we butted heads, things never
resolved. He could tell he had a lot
to do with the way I turned out, that
I loved him even if I told him only
once or twice. My mom occasionally
asks whether I am still writing. I doubt
I’ll ever stop, but sometimes it’s slow
going. She asks me if I still get published.
Sometimes. She stopped asking
how much money I made when I kept
saying hardly anything. She keeps
my books on her night table. I give
her magazines, journals that feature
my work every Christmas. Her vision
is getting worse and worse. I imagine
her hunched over the kitchen table,
sliding a magnifying glass across
the pages, her nose hovering close.

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, BODY, Gargoyle and Sho, 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.

^{“My Other Life,” previously published in Mas Tequila Review}
_{“Poet in the Family,” previously published in Fledgling Rag}