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)