Physics


This morning, the narrator

of the book I’m reading

is trying to fall asleep listening

to a tape on physics. A crisp

scientific voice is explaining

there’s no such thing as the past,

that each moment exists forever

caught in a stringy tangle of light

and mass and I remember

this woman I hardly knew

telling me she lost her virginity

and finalized her third divorce

the same date the atom bomb,

code named “Little Boy,”

was dropped on Hiroshima

killing more than 155,000 people.

August sixth, 1945. Louis Armstrong

died that day in 1971 and in 1948

a freak heat wave off the coast

of Central Portugal pushed

temperatures up to 158˚ for two

minutes. Wouldn’t It Be Nice

was a top ten hit that week

in 1966, the summer I kissed

a girl and felt my first t-shirt

covered tit playing ‘Seven Minutes

In Heaven’ with Geraldine Quinn

while my friends stood outside

counting down the seconds.


I thought about a Saturday

in that same summer. My team

beats St. Kevin’s rich kids, wins

the 8th Grade, CYO championship.

The girl I like sits in the stands,

her hair wrapped high in curlers

as I strike out the last guy

with an inside fastball. I punch

my fist in my mitt, hug

John Calamari my catcher

and roll on the ground

with everybody else in a jumble

of joy. I’m sitting on

the bench, untying my spikes

and my dad leans down,

“Three for four and a no-hitter,

that’s what you’re supposed

to do, all damn time.” He smiles,

slaps the bill of my hat.


Later, at around 7:15 or so

I realize it’s the anniversary

of the day my father died.

I call my mom and both

of us find it hard to believe

eight years have already passed.

Always, I want Mickey Mantle

to be chasing down fly balls

in Yankee Stadium, Thurman

Munson lining a two out double

into the gap and tying the score,

Jeter making that back hand flip

against Oakland over and over.


Somehow, it’s always the night

after Christmas. Snow falls

in fat sexy flakes. Suzanne

walks over, sits on my couch

and plays with her scarf, says

she doesn’t know why she’s here,

she really loves her boyfriend.

I’ve never done anything

like this before either. Usually,

I’m slow and awkward,

but I start kissing her

like I know what I’m doing

and she kisses me back softer

and deeper and walks through

the kitchen and into my bedroom

then comes back the next night

and both of us start to fall in love.


And tonight, when I turn out

the lights and pile the covers

high around my head, I wish

that physicist was singing me

to sleep, a sweet rhyming lullaby

in angelic Brian Wilson harmony,

telling me all about another

woman I love, her son’s

big green, owl-shaped clock

sitting on his dresser and how

he keeps it set to the same time

no matter how many nights

I sneak in while he’s sleeping

and moved the owl’s wings. It’s

3:12 again. His mom has his arms

and I have a hold of his legs.

We’re swinging Jesse, higher

and higher until he nearly

scrapes the ceiling. We let go

and he is flying, suspended over

his big soft bed and laughing.


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, Vox Populi and Gargoyle. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man published by NYQ Books and a finalist for the 2020 Paterson Poetry Prize.