Little dot
The soul of Gatsby
Twinkling in and out.
It was never proper,
Incorrect,
Do try another answer, red.
But shouldn’t we be grateful
For the little tastes of home?
And shouldn’t we be thankful
For the times we weren’t alone?
It’s hard to say
It’s hard to know
When the typewriter breaks
And spills letters on the floor
And they crawl like ants,
Climbing and biting and hiding in the hems of my shirt.
You should have stayed on the farm.













