I’ve seen what Fitzgerald wrote about reality
I can compare him and I to Jay Gatsby and Daisy
it flashes like the bright lights of the Roarin’ Twenties in his
they reveal shades of silky absinthe with a hollow tint of paper money,
an omen that tells me he is going to drown, a cursed, damned man,
like when I read that Gatsby was found face-down in a swimming pool.
Dead, because his pure love didn’t conquer the glitter
continuously swirling in a diamond-clad woman’s mind,
a glitter that mirrors long strings of pearls and rich white smiles.
Which of your written omens was supposed to show me, Fitzgerald,
that beautiful Daisy’s curse meant her love had to simmer out,
the slow cooling of bathwater?