The Garden of Allah

A poem for F. Scott Fitzgerald

The Garden of Allah Hotel, West Hollywood (1927).

The Garden of Allah 

‘I have living at the Garden of Allah.’
     — from a postcard written by
         F. Scott Fitzgerald to himself, 1937

So much for Hollywood,
Sobriety. The winters are 
Dry and the dreams shallow.

If I could live with myself
I wouldn’t need to write 
Myself, I’d survive on nostalgia

For everything, including 
The present. I have living 
But I don’t have you.

Was it the day you didn’t 
Recognize me that ended us? 
My face, my voice, my mind

All some sort of mirage, 
Impostor of an impostor.
Maybe that’s a semblance

Of the truth. But our truth 
And everyone’s cracks up 
Now and then, the hand-

Writing a little loopier,
The signature, an exaggeration. 
Bully for me for not licking

The stamp. Bully for me for not 
Believing the missing been might 
Have saved me at the Garden of Allah.