poem: lady gatsby

she briefly subscribed to The New Yorker

and wore the free tote around

to parties, the black handles draped slim over her arms

and the fabricked bottom

so obviously stamped THE NEW YORKER that it looked forced,

especially when hung against her JC Penny dress;

“It was clearance,” she says, proudly, and people give her fake

smiles. She is in the forever space between class and ambition, west egg

a ring on her left hand and east egg just a scratch on

her fingernail.

but she doesn’t care because

with that idea of new york chic

she is already just a little farther away from the foodstamps

on her mother’s counter. Generations filled up with maybe;

Maybe hers will be the last but

it’s unlikely. I guess this is what America is for, isn’t it? we all

need that green light in the dark, just ahead

and just behind.

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