This poem arose from a roll of the Metaphor Dice: hope = silent + curse
Those words fell away at some point, but their scent remains...
Jackie O
She dreamt I would be Caroline
to her Jackie O. If Caroline worked
at a foundation (for so said the New York Times),
then I must work at a foundation.
Never mind
that she had no clue what a foundation was.
A foundation was clearly an uptown castle
for a princess desiring
to give the appearance of working
without actually exerting herself,
doing discreetly philanthropic things
without God forbid ever encountering
an actual needy person.
I would write tasteful prose, mingle
with fellow philanthropists at Soho gallery receptions—
always in pearls, and Italian shoes—
on weekends jetting to the Hamptons or
the Vineyard to be seen at cocktail parties,
caftan flowing, makeup artfully applied
to appear natural.
This was the life
she dreamt for me, which she had failed to attain;
not even coming close, except for
the Jackie hairdo
and the sunglasses—
midtown discount knock-offs
of the designer originals.