Deep Stains Of Incurable Woe Poem by Charles Chaim Wax

“To make a long story short
we’re both losers, ” said Harry Jacobs
sitting on the couch
in the Teacher’s Center.
Outside the wind slammed snow
against the frail window
trembling in the blast.
“My father’s fault, ” I said
staring at the traffic slowing in the storm.
“Everything’s possible, ” Harry declared,
then went on to tell me
how his radio station
would soon be up
and running
and how during the summer
he’d tour Europe
playing his music
all of this set up
by his Danish ex-girlfriend.
“Not that he wanted
to ruin my life
but he did
ruin my life, ” I said.
‘Who? ” asked Harry
not remembering our conversation
of a minute ago
probably dwelling in fantasy
while I spoke.
“My old man.”
“Blame yourself, Bernstein,
only way to recovery
this delicacy
from sixteen years on the couch
one confession after the other
and yes
I did love my mother.”
The world fading now
people fading too
into white swirls
lifting earth
all of it
high
past memory.
“Any yellow pills left, ”
Harry blurted out.
“Good eh? ”
“Like an infinite movie—
happiness from the first frame
to last.”