1969

 

My brother enlisted

in the winter. I pitched

for the sixth-grade Indians

and coach said

I was almost as good

as Johnny. My mother

fingered rosary beads,

watched Cronkite say

and that’s the way it is.

I smoked my first

and last cigarette. My father

kept his promise,

washed Johnny’s Mustang

every weekend. Brenda Whitson

taught me how to French kiss

in her basement. Sundays

we went to ten o’clock Mass,

dipped hands in holy water,

genuflected, walked down

the aisle and received

Communion. Cleon Jones

got down on one knee, caught

the last out and the Mets

won the World Series.

Two white-gloved Marines

rang the bell, stood

on our stoop. My father

watched their car

pull away, then locked

the wooden door. I went

to our room, climbed

into the top bunk,

pounded a hard ball

into his pillow. My mother

found her Bible, took

out my brother’s letters,

put them in the pocket

of her blue robe. My father

started Johnny’s car,

revved the engine

until every tool

hanging in the garage

shook.

Tony Gloeggler, Rattle #25, Summer 2006