after The Great Gatsby
I did warble; gargle at times; though not like Daisy, the money voiced
her sleek waist off the road waisted,
the broken machine hides his muscular body
the mechanic the mechanic sweats
his hairy chest makes for a nasty meadow there
I could dig the soil for the metallic sound of coins she had buried--
each night he wasn't home in the garage.
Instead--pens take the shape of my teeth sick sucking the skin he sighed on--
her sleek waist off the road, what a waist.
He's drunk. Unusually alcohol streams-her scream-seeing him at the door:
mouth cigarette-coarse, pant's zipper zipped, undershirt zigzagging to a Daisy sound
zeroed in his rib cage:
"Myrtle, there's no room for panic"
I answer:
"Yes, I already know."
