Tony Gloeggler


DAYLIGHT SAVINGS

When I climb out
of the subway, the sun
still sits in the sky. I take
the long way home, cut
through the park. Boom
boxes beat hip hop
and the basketball courts
are jammed with brothers
running full out. I curl
my fingers around fence
links, taste sweat
wetting my lips, whisper
"I got next." Girls straddle
benches, stand in circles
waving cigarettes, heads
flung back, flicking smoke
signals. A grandfather
underhands a fat whiffle ball.
The little kid swings, hits
a humpbacked fly. I trot
a few steps, catch it
over my shoulder like Mays
in '54. I grab a slice
with extra cheese. Squeeze
melons, mangos, nectarines.
Pick up laundry and unlock
my mail box. Home. One
more hour of light to kill
remembering my father died
February first, that the last
time I slept with a woman
was nearly seven months ago
in Corrales, New Mexico
and I didn't love
one thing about her.