Hemingway Sits
Hemingway sits
in his blank old apartment
graying with age
Hemingway quits
Hemingway stands
with a fine old shotgun
he hunted with once
in Hemingway's hands
Hemingway cries
like he said he never would
because he can't accept it
and he can't reject it
and he can't ignore it
and he sure can't stop it
and he doesn't want to try
so Hemingway cries
and Hemingway lies
and then,
perhaps,
to no mans surprise,
Hemingway
aims
his
gun
to
the
sky.
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