The Flow

Each afternoon round about five

When the front gate is locked,

The house spirits emerge,

Watching Day-Glo cruisers

Trudge back to the docks.

Then, some ease into the garden.
Others find familiar chairs:

Front porch, side porch.
Some linger near the stairs.

One corner remains open

Until a stocky sort

With a crafted, grayish beard,

And intense, laser eyes

Heads toward his nightly perch.
He’s got a trusty pen and legal pad

In one hand, a half fifth

Of Caldwoods Rum in the other —

A can opener in his back pocket.

Soon, he is surrounded

By a vast throng of mostly

Calico, ginger, and tabby friends

Who dart, meander, scratch and wash

With one shared purpose:

To be close to Papa.

Groucho, the eldest,

Like most veterans,

Knows all he needs to know:

He waits for Ernest to settle,

Then, in one, simple blur of motion

Hops into the lap of laps.

Two of Groucho’s associates,

Perhaps brothers,

Maybe sons,

Tussle near Ernest’s right foot,

While a sister,

Maybe a daughter,

Tugs on the loose shoe-string

Of the opposite foot.

This is them.
Who they are.
What they do.
Forever and key lime
In an evolving paradise.

Yet another conch train

Rumbles past the property on Whitehead,

Heading toward Truman

To take a left on Duval

With speakers blaring.

It's packed with sunburned visitors,

Listening to HE WENT TO PARIS,

The one song Ernest learned by heart

Because it is so true

And so close to his own path.

Each hearing prompts a wry smile:

Ernest knows Jimmy is getting the current laugh.

From time to time,

A nouveau specter

To the Keys

Approaches Ernest on his porch.

“Sir, would you sign this copy.

It would be such an honor.”

Ernest scrawls his name

On the first page of a volume

That only ghosts can see.

Another factor, perhaps,

Why no one reads much any more.

The newbie

Drifts off, 

Clutching his prize,

Gazing back at Ernest

One final time.

“We had our time,”

Ernest says,

Rubbing Groucho’s back,

Whose purr soon rumbles to an island beat.

Groucho shifts 

His focus to the can

Of albacore tuna

In Ernest’s vest pocket.

A casual paw stretches,

Then rests on the shape of the pending treat:

Groucho’s way of reminding Papa,

That, for some,

It’s time for dinner in the Keys.

In the distance,

An Americana band

Has cranked into gear

On the new Truman Park stage

For Mile O Fest,

A freshly minted, Old Town attraction:

What better way to mutter

So long to January and hello to an early spring.

They’re freezing up in Buffalo

While down in the islands.

It’s all about shorts, sun screen

And laissez-faire.

Bands from Texas

And Oklahoma

Remind the crowd 

Of music’s prime purpose:

To connect,

To embrace,

To encourage spirits to soar.

And they do, too.

Back at Hemmingway House,

There’s dancing on the roof,

In the gardens,

On the porch.

Even Ernest

Is tapping his foot,

While Groucho

Eases both paws on his pending can.

Soon, he’ll get that treat

While the sun slowly sinks into the sea.

It’s another night in the Keys,

And if you look close enough,

You, too, can see:

It’s such a fine line

Between what is

And fantasy.