Self Portrait With Hemingway's Cats

"Ernest," if I may call you that, "Mister" implies advanced age, and I've outlived you. outlived the great liver of lives--hunter, fisherman, drinker, lover, writer-- thanks to you and your shotgun and, well, you know the rest, and "Papa," forget Papa, did people call you Papa, did your women really moan, "Papa" during spasms of loving? But I'm digressing, here today I'm interested in your cats, whose descendants still prowl your old home in Key West. or so say the tour guides, and who seemed to be your animal of choice. Hemingway, you that direct, no-nonsense, brawler in dog pits, and your cats, exquisite, soft, mysterious creatures, more feminine, and there might lie the answer to my question, hooked the old fisherman, played with him and reeled him in, and I must say that as a younger man pulled by the exotic as a ship to a lighthouse in a stormy sea, I would have agreed with you that the cat is the superior creature, but nothing in life is simply explained amidst the passage of time and you who dwelt in the land of the cat chose to weave rough man tales of bullfighting and war, the pit bull and its world, over cloying, effeminate poetry, the empire of the cat, while now in my own later years I Inhabit by chance of birth the nation of the dog, but explore the feline land of poetry as I might explore your islands in the stream.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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