Hemingway Tried First

Years ago the famous writer,
near despair, his latest book
mocked by the press,
his brain fried
by electricity,
took to deep thoughts
of death.

Frantic he became, his
Self-respect nil, his
Drinking, out
Of control, he didn’t
Much as plan but
Decide.

His old legs could still run,
And when the Piper Cub laid
Down quietly, he
Hopped out first, as usual,
But didn’t
Wait for the props to still.

He stumbled then lit out
The propellers
Whizzing their
Deadly grave.

A lopped off head
Would be quick,
And his pain
Would be over.

Yet his friends were faster,
Their running styles compact
And swift, their tackles
Sure.

Clumped under their body
Weight, he heard the whirr
Above, the death-shaped
Props just feet
From his destruction.

He’d try again,
And his bearded
Face was resolute.