residue

there’s an old movie
taken from a Hemingway   short story
saw the beginning of it
again on late night
early morning tv
but the fellow who plays
Hem
his ears aren’t right
his chin
his hair
his voice
and there’s this neat
wench
with perfect buns
(front and back)
accepting his precious
literary abuse
while he slowly dies in the
African jungle.

I flip the movie off
again.

of course, I never met
Hemingway.
maybe he was like this fellow.
I hope
not.

then I    look about my bedroom and
think, Jesus Alice Jesus,
why am I discontent with this
lousy tv movie?

what did I want them to make him
look like?
he was just a journalist from
Michigan who   liked to shoot
lions
and his last kill   was his
biggest
and surely he deserved the
nice buns
and the adoring eyes
of that actress
he never saw and
who
in real life
later
drank herself to
death.

the actor though is
still around and
in his trade
and
functioning
badly.
I think.

I guess when I look at the
movie
I think about that:

bwana,    bring   me   a
drink.

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