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Old Sport 

The shrill scream
of my alarm at eight a.m. 
pulls me 
from my warm sheets.
Getting up is a challenge.
I stay in bed 
and think of Gatsby
and his pretty young women
flooding his house
night after night.
Each of them 
draped in diamonds
that wink 
under crystal chandeliers.
I think of driving away
in a shinny Jordan
with Daisy Buchanan
resting her head 
against my shoulder.
The consistent alarm
reminds me 
that neither Gatsby or Daisy
will be bringing breakfast.
Where orange juice 
splashed with champagne
would replace 
the cat shit on the carpet.

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