I asked a few teachers at Spinoza HS <br />the meaning of life <br />shouldn’t have <br />the answers not suited to my style <br />like <br />money, pussy, power, smart kids, <br />a plasma TV fully paid for, <br />meeting Madonna. <br />My quest lasted a week <br />when Bill Greve said, <br />“How come you didn’t ask me, Bernstein? ” <br />Because I didn’t want to hear <br />the answer <br />I said to myself <br />after all <br />his wife of eight years <br />ran off with a man <br />whose name Greve never found out <br />leaving him with a disabled daughter <br />brain hurt <br />when deprived of oxygen <br />at birth <br />and a mother now 83 <br />suffering from dementia <br />developed soon after her husband <br />passed away <br />finally the list completed <br />when he slipped on ice <br />injuring his back <br />with only pain killers <br />keeping him from total destruction. <br />Not answering my question <br />he said, “You? ” <br />“The meaning of life? ” <br />“I need to know, ” he whispered. <br />Never should have started this business <br />I moaned to myself <br />and now Greve trembling before me. <br />In any case whatever I said <br />wouldn’t ease his pain <br />life didn’t work that way <br />still Martin Buber, a hero from my college days, <br />insisted on a response to a soul <br />who called out to you <br />so I said, “Just gotta go on.” <br />Then that slight turn of the lips <br />his breath heaved into a sigh, <br />“I’ll try.”<br /><br />Charles Chaim Wax<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/always-trying-to-find-stuff-for-my-poetry/
