Meretricious beauty—the definition of my very own <br />Muse struggling toward higher art— <br />The same way that F. Scott Fitzgerald loved his wife: <br />For no reason except for her chassis <br />For a very long time, and she was unfaith to him <br />With a fighter pilot— <br />As he looked out to the sea—and drank—and drank— <br />Imagining what was abandoned there, <br />But it was unfathomable, <br />So he wrote The Great Gatsby—separating himself <br />Into two parts— <br />For recollection and catharsis—and drank and drank, <br />While his very own wife went insane <br />And burned up in a fire after he had died from a heart <br />Attack— <br />But I still tried to teach him the very summer of <br />My June—Not really understanding him, <br />But appreciating his alcoholism— <br />Like a goldfish won on a Ferris wheel swimming <br />In a windowsill that overflowed with all of his most <br />Insensible lights.<br /><br />Robert Rorabeck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/f-scott-fitzgerald-2/
