no one saw Hemingway shit into his green slop bucket
so fuck it
he's long dead now
but i walked on a tour to his former studio
and people in the know
think it's cool he was an expat who came from money
Hadley was his first special honey
he wrote in a sharp narrative style making himself famous
winning awards from the House of Lords on a hill near Paris
i didn't give a damn that he grew depressed
who could have guessed
he'd loudly kill himself?
he still quietly lives on many a library shelf:
the old street is narrow where he walked, drank, talked
the Paris traffic passed by in its' familiar hurry:
it did not appear aimless as it sped over ancient cobbles with edges smoothed by dreams
which have often bled with age.
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