By James Kerns
Another Hemingway Sunday
Eases by on a gin and khaki breeze,
The afternoon fading to caramel
And nudging unfinished hangovers
Into fuzzy recollections.
Our shirt collars are queued to another sunset,
Another black X marked on the calendar of dreams,
Another round of blurry oaths sworn to glass reports.
Gray city, who shall call you when the siege is lifted?
Who will wave-off the masses plucking your bazaars,
Fondling your customs, slipping your secrets
Into the pockets of their travel pants?
Legions of mail-order expatriates cruise
The sleekness of your nights
Brandishing independence and living from café to curb,
Throwing languages from their lips
As bread is tossed to vagrant animals.
Favorite geographies are recounted like old lovers
With the same nostalgia sun-ripened mangoes
Excite in taste buds and callused palms,
A banquet of flavors sprawled over the past
Grown more beautiful and irreplaceable with time.
Each speaker stirs his drink
And quietly endures the others in turn
For the chance to recall those promises again
As though they were still out there
Waiting for them in the gathering twilight.