John Garfield

There’s a need for the telling;
a need for prayer.
I once slept with a woman who slept
with John Garfield. There.
I’ve told. And in her telling
as I well remember
over red wine, a home cooked
meal and some smoke
as we toyed with platonic chains
about to be broken—
she was a young aspiring dancer;
she was his lover.
One of so very many it seems—
dancers and lovers—
she knew him six months
before he died. Time tells
what legends live.
His star on the Walk of Fame
grows dimmer each day.
He’s no Bogart. Though I root for him
(and is that not a form of prayer?)
to have retrospectives
in respected venues;
to be rediscovered
by new generations.


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