As the snow swirled outside Meng’s restaurant
Jenny Berg said, “Frank’s not here, Bernstein.”
“The weather.”
“He promised.”
“The weather, ” I repeated, to calm Jenny
tears now streaming from her puffy eyes.
“I love him.”
What could I say?
I stared at Jenny not knowing how
she had fallen for Frank Crane, a philandering bum.
Just then Hattie trudged in
no hat, thin coat, despite the blizzard,
a sixty year old courtesan.
“Bernstein, your snow is here, ”
she said plopping down. I smiled.
”And this makes you happy? ”
“Yes.”
Hattie stared at Jenny still crying
so said, “A man once ruled me. He lived
in the Terminal Hotel and had
seven women at his command
one in each room
and he didn’t chain us or use knives
to keep us there.”
“Seven women! ” said Jenny.
Out came wine.
First Jennie, next Hattie, eventually silence
except for the wind blasting Brooklyn.
“But I left, ” said Hattie
wiping wine from her chin.
“Why? ” asked Jennie.
“Couldn’t stand him
fucking the other six
suffered because of that
went to my sister’s shrink, Dr. Towel,
and I told him the tale
as he puffed on his big cigar
like his hero Freud.
I had no money but by then
he was fucking my sister
so he took my case gratis
or maybe he thought to have me too
and don’t you know
that’s what happened
until the smoke became too much,
and I moved out.”
“Your sister still with him? ” I mumbled.
“Get real, Bernstein, she dumped him
the minute she found out
she could love herself.”
Charles Chaim Wax
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-pillow/
