Ernest Hemingway And Your Flame Poem by James McLain

When you became soft and famous
and you could become
that clown you always were
and nothing else really matters.
When with what you have it is to high
to see from
and being lonley up so low.
The sun stays in my eyes turned up
your lips have become
some other, ' French Riviera.
And waiting beneath the wall
for the maid comes and dumps them
at four thirty in the morning
over the side with the dredges of the night
before those bottles
your bras take longer those as well.
Except for the alcohol stains
they seem to have been
hardly used until.
Every one else only buys them because
some when they think
and also it's a strange country here.
Where, 'Ernest Hemingway
at least when he was admitted too it.
When the store opens at eight every morning.