Hemingway’s Typewriter Guilty as Charged

He wasn’t home.

Only visitors,
empty chair,
empty room,
that
blank page
chambered in
his other weapon
locked and loaded,
in battery and
ready to fire,
with more triggers
than you have teeth
and a trigger press
heavier than a
shotgun trigger,
doing good time
behind bars
all day
all day long.

He wasn’t there.

More people than
birds
more birds than
cats
more cats than
chickens
more hens than
roosters
more roosters here than
people who ever knew they
paid to mingle with
ghosts who look like
cats
that sing like
birds
and groove like
chickens
that dodge sweaty
children
dodging crying
women because yes
he made them cry
but not now.
Now they roam the grounds
asking,
“When was he Vice-President?”
and
“Why did he live so close to a t-shirt store?”

He wasn’t home–
not even his ghost
–just a revenant
a wall decoration
a mis-spelled word
always out of time
fishing and drinking,
smiling and drinking,
fishing and smiling
and drinking
sideways and avuncular,
from here to Havana,
then back in Montana
that other other typewriter:
the single key
so light to press–
so why be here on a
sweaty day in the Keys
if they won’t even let you
swim in his pool?

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