Tony Gloeggler
VISITORS DAY AT THE GROUP HOME*
Robert, twenty-one yesterday,
walks down stairs carefully
Both hands clench rails. Head
down, he watches each foot land.
Reaching bottom, he claps twice,
sees her and smiles. He mumbles
and she knows he's saying mommy.
She hugs him close. Drool slides
down the back of her neck. "Mommy
missed Robert so much." He digs
into the shopping bag of gifts,
finds a Walkman. She clamps
the headphones on him. He bobs
like a spastic puppet to the Temptations'
Greatest hits. She opens a pint
of rice pudding, starts to spoon it
into his mouth. I pass her a handful
of napkins. Later, she lays his head
in her lap, sings Happy Birthday
and lights matchsticks to wish on.
I place a coloring book, his special
extra thick crayons on the table.
He scribbles interlocking spirals
while his eyes track her movements.
A car horn sounds and she steps
to the window, motions 'just
a moment' with her hand.
She bends, kisses Robert's
forehead. "See you next week
sweetheart." We nod goodbye
as she pushes open the door.
Robert throws a blue crayon
across the room, crumples
his drawing. He stands,
climbs up the stairs and fits
into his bed, his clothes still on.
* * *
WAR STORIES*
When we're all sitting
around waiting for yellow
buses to pull up to the curb,
drop the guys off from day
program or watching TV
waiting for ten o'clock
and the night shift to take
our place, sometimes talk
turns to back in the day:
The first time they came over
for lunch, how Jimmy fit
an entire Big Mac in his mouth,
the special sauce spraying
the table like a hydrant
on the summer's hottest day
and Liz shaking her head
whispering he's gonna be
a shit load of trouble. I smiled,
knowing he wasn't assigned
to me. That Sunday afternoon
when Raphael, the worker
you'd least want to see walking
toward you on a late night
empty street, fell asleep
and Jimmy spread his feces
through Raphael's perfectly
picked afro. Jose promising
to take Jimmy to the hookers
on Third Avenue for a half
and half on his twenty-first
birthday. The quiet summer
morning Jean started screaming
and I flew down the stairs,
saw her leaning over Jimmy's
bed trying to wake him,
yelling come on boy, breathe.
She grabbed his shoulders
and I took his legs. We lifted,
carried him to the floor
and stretched him flat
on his back. I tilted
his chin, cleared his airway,
covered his mouth with mine
and blew, then compressed
his chest while she counted
over and over until
the paramedics clattered
up the stairs. I stood
in the doorway, out
of breath, tasting
his vomit, sweat stinging
my eyes, almost crying
when the medics gave up
on Jimmy, the one guy
I never learned to like.
Tony Gloeggler a life-long resident of New York
City. His work has recently appeared in Rattle,
The Raleigh Review, Chiron Review and The Paterson
Literary Review. His books include One Wish Left (Pavement
Saw Press) and The Last Lie (NYQ Books). Until the Last Light Leaves (NYQ Books) focuses on Gloeggler's
relation to an ex-girlfriend's autistic son and his years of managing group homes for the mentally challenged.
|