Hemingway's ghost Spent the better part of an afternoon Arguing with pigeons While sitting at a downtown bus stop,
A two dollar cigar Doing a wild Caribbean dance Within the clutch of his old haggard lips, as A long white beard, once a fine-combed mustache, Sways as he speaks the truth, And I listen
To stories of broken men, Whose fates are echoed in tolling bells In far off lands where the sun sets and rises, And of tales of the wide-open seas
where the best catch
Is devoured by all but the fisherman,
His flock and audience take to the sky, Stirred by the wild ranting, So Hemingway's ghost sits, Stares at sidewalk patrons And asks if anyone could spare a couple bucks... For a donut.
