Heminway's Ghost 

Hemingway's ghost visits Key West,
cuddles his cats, stops by Sloppy Joe's.
Ten plump older men, bearded like him,
stand on the bar. A sign says
'look-alike night'. The crowds
scream, jam into the small room,
butts wriggling, breasts jiggling
to ear shattering music from the juke.
Gone are the lazy days when a paddle fan
rotated slowly over a cool brew.
Gone is the town he could stroll 
leisurely through with no fear
of tourist trains and bikes ramming,
or men juggling balls, selling tees 
at Mallory Square's fiery sunset rite.
He lowers his head in despair.
These bearded men have never run
with the bulls, hooked marlin,
bedded exotic women, yet
one of them will be him tonight.




Pris Campbell
©2010

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