The Secret Of Hemmingway's Epiphany Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Tomorrow in the afternoon it will be snow here;
In Florida, she will invite him into bed.
Little girls will play paddy-cake in the carport while
It rains, the toads will ribbit- opened breasted,
The stewardesses will serenade- aspiring, their arms
Will become wings, silver and fixed, they will leave off
Their certain neighborhood for the evening, they will dawn new
Things; but tomorrow, I will be enveloped by the regular old
Snows of half a decade. My great, great grandfather was shot
In the mouth for the new president of the United States-
The secret of Hemmingway’s epiphany was he was always drunk
While recording things, encouraging the bull, teasing the fetid
Clit without any clowns around to save him. The night is
Dark but there are clouds lit underground by the scars of their
Own lightning, and every beautiful woman has driven away naked
In their own cars; but I am still here, and today I sent a full manuscript
On over to NY, NY- Now I’ve had some rum, and I sit where I’ve
Always sat for half a decade selling fireworks, hoping for news:
My head is warm in itself- it is its own meal, and I expect nothing
More from it, for its imagination has already killed her father
Which drove her here, and her legs are naked in the rain:
They are marching down, down, down, but they cannot get out of it,
For they are nothing real- and my love for you has proven to be
Useless.