Footprints Poem by Doug Lane

I B Singer
left his footprints,
his name
and number,
in the NY phone book
long after he became famous,
so his female fans,
visitors to the city,
could find him.

Old as he was,
and married as he was,
he wasn't above
getting it on
with readers,

though some claim
he was doing research
and collecting more stories,
sexy stories,
stories set
in America,
but only about
the people and places
he knew

- - Jews, East Euro immigrants,
holocaust survivors,
transplanted to New York
and Miami.

There he was on firmer ground,
just as he was on firm ground
in the lost world
of Polish Jewry
and their demons
and angels.

That's right,
he stood on firm ground
on a planet
which was
no more
except
in the memories
of aging survivors
sipping matzo soup,
munching bagels and lox,
drinking egg creams,
in kosher delis.

And the America
he lived in
as a visitor, a guest,
was mostly
another planet,
a way station,
where he could
find no footing,
outside the five boroughs,
for his stories
or himself.