He envisions a pyramid: pulpless
halves of oranges and lemons glazing
to rippling pale liquid as enormous
power’s in him now. Are gunshots grazing
then piercing his frame? Limbs melt like hot wax
in flame. Lumped in rumpled tweed on Sheila’s
Indian rug, he shudders, now sees cracks
in dark, desolate asphalt where he lies
near Wilson’s garage. He could use a drink,
but the TB…all’s black now. No other
sound but the endless hissing. Yet he thinks
it’s Max whispering to him, his brother
in the art lisping truth of Gatsby’s fate:
a rescued pauper at long last crowned great.
Roger Armbrust
July 9, 2008
