Bobby Bly and F. Scott Fitzgerald Walk Into a Bar…

Bly's is the cue ball, his mind 
breaking Fitzgerald's rack,
club ties striped and solid but
eight-ball in the corner pocket,
the dark-haired fever of it –
F Scott buried in a pauper's grave

Though Bly is only twelve in 1940
the next morning they're chewing cigarettes 
and champagne, tobacco 
bubbles and sparkles in their teeth –
light of the sun trespassing 
through the empty glasses

Fitzgerald is a flabby edition, his suit dog-eared,
unsteady from the hotel, bookstore to bookstore, 
asking for a copy of his books, but no, 
his work a has-been, a feather
mourning the precarity of wind
and tremendous fame.

Bly says we're dead now,
whither shall we go?
We lived in the front pocket of delirium,
sorrow and lint to mix for our ink.
Vienna will not have you
nor write on your tomb:

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

Shay’s Word Garden

8 thoughts on “Bobby Bly and F. Scott Fitzgerald Walk Into a Bar…

  1. At least F. Scott should have been well preserved, with all the alcohol. As for Robert Bly, it must have been difficult trying to be manly at 12 years of age, or while dead. What a scene. So glad you took part in my new prompt, qbit!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I like the incongruity of pairing Bly and Fitzgerald, each immensely talented, each so very different in their approach to writing and life. I suppose they both were literary flagships for the creative in their eras, and both looking underneath the hood with every phrase…anyway, your own look under the hood here is sharp and apposite. I especially love the way you’ve used the word list, and this line in particular “..We lived in the front pocket of delirium..” Been there, done that, and the tee shirt is so old not sure which holes are for the arms. 😉

    Liked by 1 person

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