There is an emptiness
between Hemingway’s words
A hollow sound
that slides off the page
The space creates distance
as the Old Man wanted
From the reader
and voyeurs of pain
“Distance between himself and the day
he hauled in that great fish
“Distance from that last great battle
calling out from beyond his reach
“Distance from the arena, where the
horns got close but death got closer
“And distance from the many women
he tried to love and failed”
No matter how far he lived afield,
be it Paris, Havana, or Ketchum
In no place was there distance enough
or where his words could be safe
The separation and memory loss
became deafening and finally too much
As he gave in to the distance
—one last and final time.
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)