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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389848" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cheever's People</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389848" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">These beautifully grown men. These hungerers.<br>Look at them looking!<br>They're overdrawn on all accounts but hope<br>& they've missed<br>(for the hundredth time) the express<br>to the city of dreams<br>& settled, sighing, for a desperate local;<br>so who's to blame them<br>if they swim through swimming pools of twelve-<br>year-old scotch, or fall<br>in love with widows (other than their wives)<br>who suddenly can't ride<br>in elevators? In that suburb of elms<br>& crabgrass (to which<br>the angel banished them) nothing is more real<br>than last night's empties.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=389848" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">So if they pack up, stuff their vitals<br>in a two-suiter,<br>& (with passports bluer than their eyes)<br>pose as barons<br>in Kitzbuhel, or poets in Portofino,<br>something in us sails<br>off with them (dreaming of bacon-lettuce-<br>and-tomato sandwiches).<br>Oh, all the exiles of the twenties knew<br>that America<br>was discovered this way: desperate men,<br>wearing nostalgia<br>like a hangover, sailed out, sailed out<br>in search of passports,<br>eyes, an ancient kingdom, beyond the absurd<br>suburbs of the heart.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Erica+Jong">Erica Jong</a></strong></div>