Vox Populi
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Tony Gloeggler: Bridges (1994)
You’re sick of the snow
blowing against windows,
sick of this D train
stuck between Brooklyn
and Manhattan, sick
of scanning sports pages
filled with talk of lock outs.
scabs when this lanky black man
strides in from the next car
like it’s the ninth inning
and he’s answering a call
to the bull pen. He’s wearing
a St. Louis Browns uniform,
number 27, and dragging
a Hefty bag of rags.
You fold the paper,
pray he doesn’t smell
like the dead and get
ready to recite, “Sorry man,
catch you next time” when
he stops in front of you,
extends his hand and says,
“Satch Paige is my name.”
Satchel Leroy Paige died
in Kansas City, June
eighth, 1982. But this guy
looks like he stepped
out of every photograph
taken in his prime. You smile,
tell him your name and pump
his hand. He’s heading
south. Gonna show them
replacement boys Ol Satch
still got a little left.
His meal money done run out
and it’s a long stretch
to summer. If it was 1961,
closing in on midnight,
and you had just finished
kissing your first girlfriend
good night, you’d be riding
your new three speed
over the Williamsburg Bridge,
trying to make it home
before your father keeps
his promise and beats
your ass for being late.
If you were pumping
the pedals hard, if lines
of cars were speeding
past, their tires hissing
against the tar, their wide
open windows singing top
forty tunes, would you notice
the big black bear of a man
standing in the walkway, lifting
a shiny brass saxophone
to his lips? Would you skid
to a stop and sit at his feet,
lean back, close your eyes
and listen? Would you believe
it was Sonny Rollins blowing?
Yes, Sonny Saxophone Collossus
woodshedding, communing
with his music. Would you say
to hell with your father
and stay until Sonny’s breath
ran out, stay until the first
shell pinks of morning
lit every city building?
And will you dig
into your pocket, give
Ol Satch enough change
for coffee, a buttered
roll? Will you fold
a twenty dollar bill
into his hand, rummage
through your knapsack, pass
him paper and pen, and ask
for his autograph? Will you
get off at the next stop,
order thick steaks, baked
potatoes, and split the last
piece of cheesecake? Will you
listen to him talk baseball
until he couldn’t eat
one more bite?
~~~~
Copyright 2025. Tony Gloeggler. First published in Skidrow Penthouse
Tony Gloeggler’s books include What Kind of Man (NYQ Books, 2020). He is a life-long resident of New York City. His new book, Here On Earth, was published by NYQ Books January, 2026.
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Another beautiful Tony Gloeggler poem. I always love the long arc of his connections. As I mentioned above, you can feel his poems breath over the course of their stanzas.
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What Tony Gloeggler writes about doesn’t form part of my life experiences. But I feel the power of those wheels, the presence of the ghosts, the music of the words that conjure them.
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Wow! I love this, the runs of detail, the funky beauty, the generosity of this mind, like ”
cars were speedingpast, their tires hissingagainst the tar, their wideopen windows singing topforty tunes,…
and big black bear of a manstanding in the walkway, lifting a shiny brass saxophoneto his lips?
Thank you Tony Gloeggler!
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Agreed. That characterizes a lot of Tony’s work, that “generosity of. . . mind.” One can feel it breath over the length of its stanzas, the long arc of its insight unfolding, connecting, weaving through the images he brings to it.
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Well said, Michael Young!
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I’d have given him some money too. It’s not every day you meet Satchel Paige. Cool poem.
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Another fine Gloeggler poem. I revel in this one with spring training in the air.
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Yessiree, that’s what I like!
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Oh Tony!
So fabulous! A complete expression of the old human jungle we knew and love. Is this world still alive? You make me want to go out and dive in—was that the IRT I need to get on? I’ll walk over from the Bowery and catch it at Spring Street.
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Grand poetry lives and breathes, and Tony Gloeggler’s Bridges (1994) proves it.
btw Satchel Paige pitched in his final major league baseball game at the age of 59 in 1965. In a way, Gloeggler’s poem is a form of ghost story, too, and quite an intriguing one, right?
Hope Tony’s dad was preoccupied when Tony floated through the door.
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Thanks for the smile this morning. I love the way Tony writes/thinks.
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Tony Gloeggler has a gift for turning the language of regular guys into poetry.
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