Lying quiet in dark, I’d swear I hear
Hemingway hammer on his Corona
manual; rapid clicks push Macomber
into bush, or drunk Cohn to Pamplona
where he’ll pound teenage Romero almost
at speed of those off-white keys. Now quiet.
Now softer tapping, and James Dickey’s lost
at one of his four portables, poet
morphing to lustful lover watching for
Doris Holbrook tracing Cherrylog Road.
What choice for me now as their metaphors
urge me to find my own? Sharp rhythms goad
me off mattress to keyboard. I expose
my senses to their ghosts’ striking echoes.
Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2012
