Duck Soup
The green light Gatsby spotted at the end
of Daisy Duck still permeates my dreams;
a man enamored of a waterfowl seems
odd at best, perhaps around the bend,
but I’ve been there as well; seen love transcend
the barriers of species and small schemes
and laws, and – despite the silly screams –
there’s really nothing there that should offend.
Fitzgerald’s genius wove most skillfully;
from those who paddle on against the current
to oafs, well-bred, and flasks of wine, and how
the very rich are not like you and me.
Jay Gatsby made himself the drake he wasn’t,
and wilderness turned Paradise enow.
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