Summertime, and a young financial executive’s thoughts likely turn to socializing in the Hamptons, a pleasant beachy part of Long Island. It is thus altogether fitting and proper at this season to celebrate this Wall Street tradition in verse. And I do so in the poem below—with a bit of good natured cynicism and satire thrown in.

Structurally, this poem is modeled on John Clare’s "Written in Northampton County Asylum." Lyrically, however, it couldn’t be more different. Clare, who died in 1864, was indigent all his life and died in an insane asylum. His poetry is deeply introspective and often downright maudlin.

It’s a long haul from a 19th century nut house in Northampton to a 21st century lawn party in the Long Island Hamptons. Then again, given some of the news that’s come out of the latter in recent weeks, maybe not.

Smitten At a Hamptons,
L.I. Lawn Party

She’s here! she seems alone, but should I speak?
My friends assure me I don’t stand a chance.
I ooze neurosis, and my chin is weak.
She’ll see these defects, and dispatch a lance,
Unman me there, with just a single glance,
And so I’ll stand, alive, but wet of pants.

Why dare this recklessness, and all it bodes,
With a hot stock analyst on a roll,
A wired woman who knows The Street, its codes,
How could she fall for a back office mole
With yearly bonus small? Yet I feel drawn
By visions—half professional, half porn.

I want a life by lots of money fueled,
To bed someone who always makes big deals,
A woman in investment banking, schooled,
Who doesn’t snore and buys me fancy meals,
Has deep thoughts like all good money minters,
We’ll beach here summers, Manhattan winters.

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© Michael Silverstein