An American in Paris

Sporting the thickest of skin and the thinnest of cotton; 
This Yank called Frank, offspring of a hothouse flower 
and a merchant banker, segued to a halt. 
Dabbing at my chest with a hand like a palm frond; 
This catamite asked in the way that a cat might. 
"Are you the author? Please tell me it's you. 
I bet you've read Babylon Revisited? Oh Fitzgerald! 
I mean the man knew Paris. Right?" 

'Well I lifted the palm frond, still pinned to my chest. 
Did my best then to swallow a quip. Letting rip 
was the instinct I had to rethink; which I did 
with the hint of a smile. A country mile from ambivalence 
I asked him, in my own twist on a limp wrist. 
"Who the fuck is Fitzgerald?"