Tony Goeggler(3 poems)
12/8/80
I can’t remember what we ate
or anything we talked about
as you and your sister sat
on our ugly pillow couch,
lifted gas station giveaway
glasses filled with cheap wine
to your lips. I sat with my legs
folded indian-style on the floor,
back pressed flat against
the base, my head between
your legs while you knitted
my hair into two loose braids.
I don’t remember music,
but I can easily hear Van
or Ralph McTell playing.
It was nearing midnight. Wind
blown snow was falling harder,
starting to cover the streets.
We found extra blankets, sheets,
gave up one of our pillows
to make Dana’s night as cozy
as possible. You followed me
into the bed room. We had only
been living together for a month
and I watched you undress,
slip under the comforter, fit
into a fetal position, burrow
into me and whisper something
about tonight being the kind
of night that made getting old
at twenty-five seem nearly
bearable. I kissed your neck,
never thinking about Dana’s
long, wrap-around legs,
her excited eyes always
hinting she was up for anything.
You reached behind, found
my cock and brought it to life.
When I pulled you close,
you were already wet.
I remember everything
growing quiet, the world
slowing down, settling
into one sweet moment.
That morning, you and Dana
had early classes. Working
an afternoon shift, I was still
lying in bed, trying to find
a few more hours of sleep
when you came in crying.
The radio was playing Beatle
songs, cuts from Double
Fantasy and when the set
ended, the DJs voice broke in,
hushed and deep, saying
John Lennon was dead,
killed last night by a gunman.
You came back to bed and Dana
joined us. No one said anything
and we stayed there for maybe
fifteen minutes. While Lennon
and The Beatles never meant
to me what he meant to the rest
of the world, you loved him,
his music, and sometimes
I still miss you and I’ll never
forget where I was and who
I was in love with the night
John Lennon died.
THIS MONTH’S VISIT
After Jesse gives me the quick hug
I still have to ask for, he says paper
and walks to the table. I unlock
the room that’s called the office,
come out carrying a blank sheet,
settle into my seat. He prints
September 6 2019 across the top.
I ask, What should we do today?
He always begins with the city bus
like he’s spent either all morning
or his whole life waiting to ride
that bus into town and I feel
I am fulfilling my one holy
purpose helping to make this guy
happy. We continue down the page:
Starbucks, Blackbird Books, a long
slow Deerborn bus loop where
he asks to switch seats at least
twenty times and I shake my head
sideways, beg him to please zip
his lip as he laughs so loud
that everyone looks our way until
he moves closer, widens his eyes
and stares longingly into mine.
I am forced to say okay, just once.
He slides into a new seat, smiles,
then says, change, one more please,
while I make faces, act enraged.
We grab jackets, file out the door,
take the elevator and hit the street.
He walks fast, I move slow as shit.
He keeps looking back at me, down
the street, in case a bus appears
and we wind up trotting a few blocks
to catch it. But no, we can take it easy.
I start thinking about Brooklyn,
carrying Jesse out to the curb
for his first day of mainstream
schooling. With his six year old legs
wrapped around my waist, I felt
like his father. His mom aimed
a camera at us, juggled his backpack
filled with Winnie the Pooh books,
his lunch box stocked with Oreos,
Extra Spicy Doritos, the only things
he ate back then, and an index card
with all his information printed on it.
She was worried about the other kids
bullying him, laughing at his flapping
fingers, constant percolating sounds,
out-of-nowhere leaps of frustration
and delight. I knew he had no use
for other kids, wouldn’t acknowledge
their existence unless things escalated
to physical cruelty. Jesse carries everything
he needs inside himself, stored beneath
his beautiful blue photographic eyes.
Sometimes, I try to be more like him.
We had driven a few practice runs,
repeated short simple phrases
while he looked out the car window,
hummed. We parked in front
of the school building, walked up
the steps, moved around back
and let him fly high on the swings.
Still, I’m not sure he knew where
he was going that morning, how
long he was expected to stay, what
they might try to make him do there,
or if he was afraid of not coming
back and ever seeing us again. When
the bus arrived, his mom lifted him
out of my arms, nuzzled his face
with swarming kisses that tickled him,
then finally placed him on the ground.
He walked up the steps casually,
that light bounce in each of his steps
as if he knew where he was going.
He found a window seat. We waved
until the yellow bus turned the corner.
Today, I lean in the doorway shade
of the nail salon. Jesse stands
ten feet away, sometimes taking
a quick little jump as cars flash by
or he turns to trace the lettering
in the shop’s window and I try
to keep him from scraping it off.
Periodically, he walks over to me,
time please. I dig through pockets,
hand him my cell. Giving it back,
he says, Friday October 4, come back,
two nights, Sunday October 6, go home,
Tony New York, and I have to answer,
Yes, for sure or the whole world stops.
When the bus pops into sight, he skips
to the curb, bouncing on the balls
of his feet and waits for the door
to unfold. He drops five quarters
into the slot and walks down
the aisle like he owns the bus
and every single person on it.
THREE SPEED
You walked home slowly, trying
to find words to tell your father
your new three speed was stolen.
You had pedaled past the overgrown
lots, the dumping grounds, all
the way to the new soccer field
at the edge of your neighborhood.
You and John Calamari stayed late,
took turns kicking field goals
through uprights. Riding home
on the narrow path, three older
kids ambushed you, pulled you
to the ground, punched, stomped.
You stopped fighting back when
one kid pulled a knife. A few
more kicks and they were gone,
racing away in the opposite direction.
Cal somehow got away, only lost
his football, which made you
feel worse, slower, dumber
and weaker than him. Home,
your father yelled what the hell
were you doing over there, letting
them take your bike like that.
There were no good answers
and you knew he was right.
His face muscles tightened,
the strain spread down his neck,
to his arms, into his right hand.
He smacked you once, twice.
and you knew enough to quietly
take it, After doing what
he thought a father should,
you both sat down to dinner
and he sort of apologized,
saying how it was just a bicycle,
maybe you’d get a new one
for Christmas, your birthday.
Tony Goeggler is resident of New York City and have managed group homes for the mentally challenged in Brooklyn for 40 years. His work has appeared in Rattle, Poet Lore, New Ohio Review, Spillway and Juked and BODY. His full length books include One Wish Left (Pavement Saw Press 2002), The Last Lie (NYQ Books/2010) and Until The Last Light Leaves (NYQ Books 2015). His next book will be published by NYQ Books in 2020.