Vox Populi
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Tony Gloeggler: October
The woman in the Jet Blue seat
next to me is talking about
her weekend getaway. Every
year she leaves NYC behind
for fall in New England: a cabin
made of tree trunks, feeding
evening fires, ordering a stack
of pancakes soaked in fresh
tapped maple syrup, guys
in the next booth talking
Red Sox, Celtics and hunting,
two lane highways winding
deeper into woods, the explosion
of leaves, deep brush strokes
of colors, that breathtaking
blend and how no words
can touch their beauty.
No, I don’t really give a crap
about her damn leaves
and I wish I could say that,
strap headphones on,
get lost in my music.
Instead, I explain I’m going
to visit Jesse. He turned
twenty-two in June, graduated
high school. I saw photos
posted on line, his family,
his workers, surrounding him
at Buffalo Wild Wings and Jesse
laughing. I haven’t seen him
since May. I told him I was sick.
My youngest brother gave me
a kidney and recovery was slow,
but I am moving much better now.
It was a prefect match
and my nephrologist said
I’ll probably have to find
a different way to die.
He’s an ex girlfriend’s son
and I’ve known Jesse
since he was five. I decide
not to tell this woman he’s autistic
thinking she can figure it out
if she listens. I describe
how good it makes me feel
when his worker drives him
to the airport. I ask for a hug
and he gives me one, always
hesitating before he wraps
his arms around me, tightens
his hold for a few seconds.
We do whatever he wants:
ride the city bus, eat sizzling
chicken fingers, French fries,
Ben and Jerry’s brownies,
walk to the nearby bridge,
that park in Oakledge
to throw rocks into the lake,
and every minute or so
his eyes fill with delight
as if he has discovered
this amazing, messed up
world and the hidden
magic of its people
for the first time again.
Sometime, during my visit,
maybe when he’s taking
a short or long break
at his apartment or riding
in the back seat, he’ll lean
forward, tell his worker, “Tony,
come October, two nights,
October 12th.” The worker
always tells him to talk to me
and Jesse repeats his question,
his demand, only a tick slower
as he stares into my eyes.
I nod, give him my promise.
Boarding my flight, I already
miss him. I feel a chill,
the distance between New York
and Portland growing wider
and I hear Jesse’s request
singing in my ears like a mantra.
~~~~
Copyright Tony Gloeggler. First published in Paterson Literary Review
Tony Gloeggler’s books include What Kind of Man (NYQ Books, 2020). He is a life-long resident of New York City.
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adding to the joyful chorus: i adore these poems about the deep and singular love between tony and jesse. thank you tony
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Thanks, Abby.
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Tony responds: “Thanks everyone for the generous comments. I appreciate you taking the time to read my stuff and happy to hear it’s connecting with you.”
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Love, and more love, so beautifully described.
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The need for healing love never ends. Thanks for writing its story, and sharing this with us readers, to remind us.
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I love this poem so full of love, the woman, her leaves; his for Jesse, whom he has loved for years in one of those nameless kinship patterns never envisioned by the namers, not stepfather, not uncle, but loving was if; and then Jesse’s for his and the world.
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Yes, the relationships here are familial, but unnameable.
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I feel the love.
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Yes
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I love Tony’s poems about Jesse, but I am feeling my grandson, Frederick, his hugs, his wide eyes as he navigates this world with Williams Syndrome. As usual I am thankful for Tony’s poems that pull out those feelings the way rare poems can.
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I feel the same way, Barb. Tony’s poems are real, in the way a conversation with a friend is real.
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“every minute or so
his eyes fill with delight
as if he has discovered
this amazing, messed up
world and the hidden
magic of its people
for the first time again.”
…such love in this poem.
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Yes
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Tony’s poems about Jesse touch my heart.
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Me too, Jan
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