David Ignatow, 1914–1997

        I am as guilty as many. No one speaks of David Ignatow anymore.
No one speaks of  your lonesome time in the New York boonies,
those outer reaches of Jamaica,
where the Z & J Lines go no more.
No one speaks of your sparsely furnished rooms,
the low-slung Danish sofa where you sit and muse and daydream
out the grimed window on rainy days.
Even in the warmth of spring, there is no spring.
You don’t go out much, I would imagine.
I imagine much for the both of us.
All those darknesses at noon.
Those woodlands filled with songbirds twittering.
Even scribblings on the morning Times
are but a momentary respite.
Words we’ve been blessed with,
still blessed, even in our nightly dreams unfinished.
Where art thou now, dear David?
Where is the love for my desperation
that I may fight your fears?

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