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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.

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