Tony Gloeggler: Hardly Talking

Last time I stopped

at the corner Bodega

for coffee, a corn muffin,

the fat woman who always

sits behind the counter

spoke to me in English

for the first time and told me

Emmanuel had died

last week. “You know,”

she said, “The old man.”

And I nodded. Larry’s friend,

the old guy who straddled

the milk crate, guarded

the outside fruit bins.

Anytime we walked by,

he’d stand and smile, slap

Larry’s hand five, take off

his cap. They would hold

each other’s shoulders, bow

just a bit and bump heads

gently, three times. Sometimes

he handed Larry a mango

or a zip-locked bag of berries

and I would act like my father,

remind him to say thank you.

When I said I was sorry, that

he seemed like a good man,

she told me to tell Larry.

.

Larry wears the same grey

sweat shirt every day.

He hides it every night,

fights to keep it out

of the wash, then sneaks

down the basement, listens

to it rinse, tumble dry.

He’s thirty seven years old

and can never fall asleep

until that shirt is folded

in his top drawer. I know

that every time we walk

past the store, Larry will

still interlock his forefingers,

keep repeating “my friend,

my friend” with that slurred

slightly raised last syllable

hanging in the air. I’ll try

to hurry him, take his hand,

bribe him with a popsicle,

a black and white cookie,

until I’ll give up and lie,

promise, that yes, his friend

will be back tomorrow.

.

The last time I saw

my father, we hardly

talked. I straightened

out his sheets, ate half

of his hospital hamburger

and hoped he would hurry

and fall asleep. I kept

leaning out the door,

checking the clock above

the water fountain, looking

down the hall for my sister

who finally came and took

my place. I left, caught

an early movie and sat

in a nearly empty theater,

watching a movie I can never

remember the name of,

wishing I was Steve Buscemi

making out with his friend’s

seventeen year old daughter,

Chloe Sevigny, the night

my father died.

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Copyright 2023 Tony Gloeggler. First published in Washington Square Review

Tony Gloeggler’s poetry collections include What Kind of Man (NYQ Books, 2020). He is a lifelong New Yorker.