reading Hemingway

the campfire burned a bright flame on top of my hunger 

i hope everyone knows by now:

we're not getting any younger.

thus, cold time reclining in the freezer calls my name! 

it sounds like old geezer 

while the cod on the cape has lots of wealth 

& ladies stroll the beach for health 

but i can't go there 

with my heavy head of thinning hair 

and share 

their dream of paradise... 

no, it's a lump of coal a chunk of emotional ice 

an alley with a deep dead end 

and one is dumped there without any friend 

without a lively book, no color on a questioning face 

that one didn't paint or trace. 

but this appetite on my tongue isn't a hangover from when i was young 

it's tasty surface, like a passion, 

persists beyond any passing fashion 

as sun brightens the fire and burns the kiln-dried wood 

it lingers in the bones and makes them feel so damn good 

running full face inhaling fresh air swallowing embers while playing dare 

reading Hemingway; reading Crane 

thinking youthful shit with an active brain 

dancing to a temptress's song 

and trampolining naked which is never wrong:

it simply feels where i belong.