He moves at a snail’s pace with all the time in the race

In his thirties, published the Great 20th century American Novel

Before this, met iconic Ernest Hemingway who owned the place

The don was very encouraging of his fiction knew he’d reach another level

They met during the war, soldiers with a laser focus

At uni before the war, he had mouthed his ambition

The institution would inspire Pencey Prep, his groundbreaking book’s locus

Catcher would save many aspiring authors from literary malnutrition

Released a collection of stories, which I’ve perused

Offered some novellas

Public scrutiny made him hibernate and unenthused

Never released new material and rarely appeared, unfazed even by paellas

Only ventured out to rebuff exploitative figures

Fathered a daughter, who grew up with her mum

Had an affair with a younger lass but bristled when she capitalised on their adventures

Jerome was not known for his poetry or rum

A master of the short story, Catcher is essential in schools today

I too was like him, with forays into short fiction

Attaining early success, nothing prepared him into the fray

Solitude became his mission

He flamed out too soon

In the end, publishing and sharing his gifts did not bring happiness

Chose the path less travelled, the other fork to the moon

While his contemporaries sold millions, he went awol opting for loneliness

Like that dissident, hanging in there by choice

Wasn’t he interested in what the world offered?

Wondered about Central Park’s breeze? Heard another voice?

See the flowers and trees? Didn’t the walls make him stutter?

Or to helm a talk of his latest release?

When he left us a decade ago, more questions than answers

His work outlives him, his legend sweeter than jellies

His reclusiveness inspired Finding Forrester, my all time fave

Unfinished business, yet now he’s gone

We cannot query him of his intents or summon him from the grave

Hear him discuss his fam or pick a bone

How did his day look like? What sumptuous food did he go for?

Which books impelled him? Did he even need casual clothes, only for them to sit in his wardrobe?

To this day, his lone novel divides, some don’t get it while we give it amour

I think it’s brilliant, a classic for the globe

Others criticise the writing and miss the symbolisms

Catcher was cruisy, one helluva book to read

Wish he gave us more material and paroxysms.