If I line up words
with one or two syllables
and hard consonants
until they become
a boy chasing a ball,
a car driving too fast,
you can nearly hear
the sound a father hears
that makes him turn
his head so he can see
his son’s body twist
across the road, thud
against the curb. If you like,
you could be the father,
watch the car slow down,
the driver look back, see
the red tip of a cigarette
dot the twilight before
the driver turns back
around and keeps going.
You could be a neighbor
opening a door, standing
on front steps as lights
throb against brick houses
and cops ask questions. Or maybe
you could be the man’s wife,
Laura, who moans the boy’s name
and won’t let anyone touch her.
She wants to know why
her husband couldn’t keep
her child safe. He wishes
he could tell her about the girl
next door, sixteen years old,
with her cut off tee shirt,
belly button ring and how
good she looked walking
across the just watered lawn
the moment the car hit
their son. He wants to believe
that saying those words
out loud, telling the truth
now will make him
someday feel better. Me?
I could be the driver, turning
slowly down my block,
pulling into the garage.
I will sit in the car
with the motor running,
playing with the lighter
until I can remember
the kinds of things
I’m supposed to say
to my wife, my daughter
when I walk through the door.
Originally published in The Ledge.
Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of New York City and managed group homes for the mentally challenged in Brooklyn for 40. years. He’s retired now pretending he’s happy being older and wiser. His work has appeared in Rattle, Chiron Review, New Ohio Review, Nerve Cowboy crab Creek Review. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man published by NYQ Books and a finalist for the 2020 Paterson Poetry Prize.