top of page
John Grey
Reading The Great Gatsby in the White Mountains
In my wilderness tent,
I’m reading, by flashlight,
“The Great Gatsby”
for the tenth time or more.
I’m so involved
in what I could almost
recite by heart
that I don’t even notice
the barred owl’s,
“who cooks for you,
who cooks for you all”
or the distant cry
of a coyote.
Not even light-plush
night sky
or a robust full moon
can drag me away
from New York
in the roaring twenties.
I find being
away from it all
is the perfect opportunity
to get into it all.
I’m right at the point
where Daisy runs down Myrtle
in Gatsby’s car.
So are the banks of a lake,
wind through the trees,
a raccoon rustling
the underbrush.
bottom of page