I shoot an email to my oldest
friend, Ed, every month or so.
We met when my family left
Brooklyn, moved to Flushing,
Whiffle ball in my car-less
driveway, fast pitch stickball
against strike zones drawn on
handball walls. He was Mays,
me Mickey Mantle. Two years
older, he discovered girls, grew
long hair, threw his arm out,
played keyboards in garage
bands. I dawdled behind.
I’ll ask about Nancy, his wife,
if she’s getting around any better
these days? With summer ending,
whether they’re back in Manhattan
yet? I’ll mention my recent Jesse
visit, he’s adjusted smoothly
to his new house, seems happy,
his mom so relieved she found
a place for him and his caregiver
to live when she dies. I’ll point
out both our baseball teams
sucked this season, wonder
if he still tail gates at every
Giants game? Ask if there’s
any music to check out, maybe
just get together, eat something,
when I remember late May,
that Spanish place on Charles
Street, him saying his daughter
was moving to Israel, her Orthodox,
reigious nut of a husband, wanted
to move his grandkids there, how
nothing he said kept them in Jersey.

Tony Gloeggler is a life-long resident of NYC and managed group homes for the mentally challenged for over 40 years. His most recent book, What Kind Of Man with NYQ Books, was a finalist for the 2021 Paterson Poetry Prize and long listed for Jacar Press’ Julie Suk Award.