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FAITH
You
find it hard to believe
in any kind of God: Priests,
little boys, countless, kept secrets;
Israelis, Palestinians, that dirty war
over somebody's idea of holy land;
Your girlfriend's autistic son,
and how she stopped loving you
suddenly; the sharp, numbing
loneliness. Yet, every morning
You
reach across the mattress
quiet that bleating alarm,
sit up, still half asleep,
ready to do whatever
the hell it is you now do.
When My Wife Asks For A Divorce I Go See My Uncle Jmmy
And He Tells Me About The Good Old Days
Come on, he says, it's not far.
We can walk to my old school.
If the gate's locked, we'll climb
the fence. Easy. Put your foot
here. Now there. That's it. Up
and over. Lunch time, this yard
was filled with hundreds of kids
flipping baseball cards, skipping
rope and nuns fingering strings
of black beads, pacing like prison
guards. I played punch ball.
The first fifth grader in history
to hit the ball on the roof.
When the bell rang,
we lined up in size place,
entered the building two by two.
No talking. We sat in alphabetical
order, seven rows of ten seats,
our hands folded, reciting
catechism. God made me.
God made me to know, love
and serve him. Talking?
Five whacks of the strap
across your hands. Bathroom?
You kidding? Hold it in.
After school, stickball. Fresh
chalked boxes on brick walls,
scoreboards drawn that looked
like arrows on the ground.
We'd print our names, fill in
all nine innings. Everyone
could tell who won, who lost
until rain came, washed it away.
Dinner, six o'clock sharp.
Fathers made livings
with their hands or backs
while mothers stayed home
to cook and clean and yell
and tell our fathers everything
so they could hit and punish us.
Good men drank weekends
only. Good women never
complained. Daughters married
before they turned twenty,
nine and a half months before
their first child, please Jesus
let it be a boy, was born.
Good sons stayed out of jail,
sometimes finished high school.
Husbands and wives stay
together in life and in death.
St. Peter meets us at the gate,
points to heaven or hell.
No explanations. No begging.
So,
I told your Aunt Mary, no,
I don't understand. You're not
happy and you want to spend
some time apart? You want
to take the kids to your mother's
for a few weeks? I says I'm sorry,
but you and the kids ain't going
nowhere. Now, let's go home.
FOWLER STREET
Danny Drolet
told me.
"I caught my big
brother in the garage
looking at a book
filled with dirty
pictures. He blew
two smoke rings, pointed
his cigarette between
this girl's legs," said
"That's where you stick
your dick" I didn't
believe him.
We
were standing
on the corner
throwing snowballs
at cars crawling
along Fowler street.
I threw one
through an open
bus window, hit
the driver and knocked
his glasses off.
When he slowed
to a stop, we hopped
a backyard fence, tore
ass down the alley.
Out of breath
he crossed his heart
swore it was true.
I
didn't say
a word, thought
I'd be late for supper
and ran all the way.
I sat down, bowed
my head and said
grace, watched Mom
pass serving dishes, Dad
spoon goulash, Julie
chew egg noodles
with her mouth
open, and I knew
it was true.
1969
My
brother enlisted
in the winter. I pitched
for the sixth grade Indians
and coach said
I was almost as good
as Johnny. My mother
fingered rosary beads,
watched Cronkite say
and that's the way it is.
I smoked my first
and last cigarette. My father
kept his promise,
washed Johnny's Mustang
every weekend. Brenda Whitson
taught me how to French kiss
in her basement. Sundays
we went to ten o'clock Mass,
dipped hands in holy water,
genuflected, walked down
the aisle and received
Communion. Cleon Jones
got down on one knee, caught
the last out and the Mets
won the World Series.
Two white-gloved Marines
rang the bell, stood
on our stoop. My father
watched their car
pull away, then locked
the wooden door. I went
to our room, climbed
into the top bunk,
pounded a hardball
into his pillow. My mother
found her Bible, took
out my brother's letters,
put them in the pocket
of her blue robe. My father
started Johnny's car,
revved the engine
until every tool
hanging in the garage
shook.
Tony Gloeggler was born, grew up, lives and probably
will die in NYC. He currently runs a group home for
developmentally disabled men in Brooklyn. His work has
appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. His
chapbook, ONE ON ONE, won the 1998 Pearl Poetry Prize
and ONE WISH LEFT, his first full length collection,
was published by Pavement Saw Press in 2002. He can be
reached at
AGloeggler1@nyc.rr.com.
Two of the poems in this online collection, "1969" and
"Fowler Street" originally appeared in One Wish
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