At The Gatsby Party

by Alfonso Colasuonno

I love their cruelty,
the way they target you,
the way they straddle you,
like the horses they ride,
and the horses they request,
and I bear their decorum,
that false front,
behind the cocaine lines,
and the hammering up of Oxys,
and the trust accounts,
and the meds,
and the therapists,
and the galleries,
and the night life,
and the scornful glances at your closet,
and the way their hair curls
against the lightness of their eyes,
and the perfumes they wear,
and the lives of leisure they live,
and I say to them,
hey, rich girl,
and sometimes they reply.